London Bridge
by animefreak2015
Summary: AU: Rebecca Fogg's London Season is not going well. With the addition of Count Gregory storming at Phileas, Jules Verne as a French agent with his man-servant Passpartout, Captain Jack Sparrow and the equally shady Captain Barbossa, what else could possibly go wrong? Started as an "action scene" challenge on a SAJV list ... it mutated.


Disclaimer: Not only does SAJV not belong to me, I suspect they might not recognize it in this particular configuration. POTC belongs to Disney and other people. Lilith is mine as is Great Aunt Hermione.

Role Reversal/Action Challenge

In which Rebecca Fogg's introduction to Society goes somewhat awry; Phileas Fogg discovers that not all is as it could be and a certain pirate retrieves his treasure.

The message was short but hardly sweet.

"Phil:

Please pay the person who delivers this.  
I've run into trouble. Could use your help.  
No time for finesse.  
Rebecca  
PS: He'll bring you back to me if you hurry. R."

Phileas Fogg looked over the unprepossessing specimen standing on his ancestral doorstep and sighed. How like Rebecca to ...

He dug in his pocket and extracted a few coins. "Sorry. Best I can do for the moment." He felt the color rising in his cheeks and made the only other offer he could think of. "Breakfast?"

A grimy hand touched the brim of the apparition's equally grimy hat. "Thank'ee, guv'nor. A might hungry I be an' a' that." The rundown shoes were carefully wiped on the doormat before the person entered.

Phileas led the way to breakfast and then dashed upstairs to pack. Pack: that was a laugh. He threw what he thought he needed into a traveling bag and looked around his sparely furnished bedroom. Damn Rebecca. Rebecca! If she were in trouble she'd need  
clothes. He muttered something not quite fit for polite company under his breath and plunged into his sister's room. Dresses were simple. Open the closet and ... Oh. My. Dresses. Well, not the ones for country balls. That was simple enough. But of the  
dozen or so left, which ones. He grabbed a green one and a pale yellow, yanking them off their hangers and realized that the incredible quantity of fabric in the skirts was not going to fit in his bag.

Hang it all. And under things. She was always managing to need under things. He took a breath and pulled open a drawer. He blushed. With great fortitude he gently pulled one of the dainty items out of the drawer and realized this must be where she kept her night  
dresses. Dropping it on the floor he closed the drawer and tried another one. With much silent "er - um - harrumphing", he pulled together what he hoped was a decent amount of clothing to suit his hoyden sister and then went to look for a small trunk to carry it in.

He stopped about half way down the hall to the storage room and considered. If Rebecca were in danger, would it do to take his carriage to London? Or would horses be faster? Horses were faster, of course. He took several deep, supposedly calming breaths and decided that it was better to take money with him to purchase clothing for his sister if necessary.

Having settled that, he left his sister's room in considerable disarray, snatched up his bag and repaired to the small dining room. He stopped in the doorway. The greasy, unappetizing entity who had brought him the note was now sans hat and nondescript  
coat revealing a still dirty, but much more pleasing form. The young woman froze in the act of spearing more bacon. There was something dangerous lurking in her dark eyes as she turned her head slightly to look at him. Slowly, she retrieved the bacon and sat down,  
still watching him.

"Food to your liking?"

She shoved one of the strips of crispy pork into her mouth and nodded as she chewed. "It's good."

"Where, exactly, is my sister?"

That got a nasty smile. "I take y'too 'er."

"Do you, indeed?" Two could play at the dangerous game.

She laughed. "Oooo, ain't yer the cold blooded one. It's 'er loife yer pl'yin' wit'."

"Can you ride?"

Another measuring look and a nod. She cast a regretful look at the table before shrugging into the shapeless coat and stuffing her hair up under the ancient hat. Grabbing up a slice of bread she nodded. "Ready."

If Phileas was expecting to go slow because of his companion and guide, he was swiftly disabused of that idea. Her seat on a horse was most respectable, almost as though she spent more time in the saddle than on foot. The horse obeyed her with little play of the  
reins. He filed that information away for future consideration.

It took three days to get back to London. They rode hard, took the back ways when they could and slept under trees. Luck was with them on the weather, it held fair and cool. They slowed their travel as the roads became more crowded. Another time, Phileas might  
have been struck with awe at the sight of the teaming metropolis that was the heart of his country. Now he only felt a sense of urgency and frustration at being slowed from the rescue of his sister.

Not far away, a dapper figure in gray picked his way through the streets. A walking cane swung negligently from one hand, a nosegay was held ostentatiously in the other to be sniffed as he walked. His moustache and beard proclaimed the dandy. His suit was of a  
fashionable cut seldom seen in his current environs. His motion was languid. Something about his bright dark eyes belied his relaxed saunter. The eyes under their heavy lids missed very little that went on around their owner. Right now he was searching for  
something.

A small, plump man with an exaggerated moustache and oiled hair bustled after the man in gray. "M'sieur. M'sieur!"

The man in gray turned. "Yes?" he drawled, only the faintest of accents marring his word.

The little man drew up, stopped and tried to catch his breath. "M'sieur. She is not happy." A raised eyebrow prompted a flood of French that ended with the remark that "She is not going up again until it is fix."

"My dear Passpartout, then fix her."

Passpartout blinked at this solution. "Fix her. Good. And where am I to find the mechanic the equal of Jean-Luc in this place?"

That got a smile and almost a laugh. "I am certain you will find what you need. Now, go. Fix the magnificent one and let me continue my walk. Undisturbed."

For a moment Passpartout struggled with himself before nodding and turning to go. He took a few steps, then looked back. "Dinner you will be returning for?"

"Perhaps."

With that he had to be satisfied.

Darkness fell with unprecedented swiftness. Phileas and his guide were now on foot, leading their tired horses through cobble stone streets. The young man was trying hard to ignore the uneasy feeling between his shoulder blades. He felt no real trust for the young  
woman with him, but he had no choice.

They turned into a narrow alleyway between two buildings. His horse balked at the smell and the closeness. He reached up to quiet the horse. A low laugh disturbed him. The woman was hidden in the shadows, practically invisible. The oppressive feeling strengthened. Something was wrong here. In a sudden flash, he knew what was wrong. This was a trap for him. Rebecca was nowhere near this place.

He turned, panic rising within him as he thumped into his horse. "Back up, dammit," he urged quietly.

"Sorry, guv'nor, there's no escape for you." The woman reached up and grabbed the horse's bridle reins. "None at all."

He glared at her in the darkness. The thick accent was gone. Her tone was mocking. "Where is Rebecca?" he ground out.

"Who knows? Perhaps in some Bedouin Sheik's harem at this point. I neither know nor care. What I was after, was you."

A few feet away, a door opened, casting yellow light into the alleyway. Two uniformed men rushed out and grabbed him before he could move. Struggle as he might, they were stronger than he and bore him easily into the building. The door closed leaving the woman with two horses.

Inside, Phileas was roughly manhandled across a dirty storeroom and down a hallway ending at a surprisingly well-appointed apartment. He was dropped unceremoniously onto a sofa and left. So swift was the change from prisoner to guest, he felt oddly free and  
held at the same time. As he looked around, he was aware of a darkened alcove on the far side of the room. There was a sense of something there, something in the shadows watching him.

He stood up, straightened his coat, smoothed his hair and regretted the loss of his hat. "Hello?" Silence greeted his voice. Heavy, ominous silence. "I say, this is hardly the way to treat a guest." He huffed, relying on memories of his stuffiest uncle to get the tone right.

"Guest?" The answer was deep, sinister, frightening. Something moved out of the shadows. Fear slithered up Phileas' spine and took root in his neck. "Guest? You  
are not a guest, Phileas Fogg, you are mine."

"I beg your pardon?" Bluster now, panic later, he firmly told himself. He shoved away hideous visions that were fluttering around the outside of his focus.

The thing that looked like some odd conglomeration of man and armor moved fully into the light. "You belong to me, now and forever," the thing confirmed its first statement. A travesty of something it must have thought was a smile stretched its mouth. "I am Count  
Gregory."

Breeding in tact, Phileas bowed. "Phileas Fogg. But you seem already aware of that. What exactly do you mean, you own me? I am a British citizen."

One armored hand came down brutally on his shoulder and slowly, inexorably forced him to his knees. "You are no longer a British citizen. You are my captive. You will work for me. You will worship me!" the thing practically bellowed in his face.

Phileas paled as he realized that this - this monster - must be the hand his paranoid uncle had sworn was behind every ill that befell the Empire. He nearly bit his tongue fighting to keep from asking about Rebecca. This was not something his sister needed to know  
about.

Not far away in terms of distance, Rebecca Fogg hugged a light shawl about her bare shoulders and wondered what she was going to do now. Last night she attended a ball with her Great Aunt Hermione Erica Anastasie Fogg Landown. While dancing with a gentleman who was both good looking, in a very socially correct manner, and very impressed with his own position, she had opted for fresh air to cool down from the waltz they shared. She still wasn't certain whether the gentleman took her request as an indication she was interested in a more intimate encounter or whether he was just obnoxious and tried to take advantage of every young lady he took into a garden at night.

She scowled at the torn lace along her neckline. Sir Whateverhisnamewas had started the tear. Luckily, a heel in the instep of a dancing pump was apparently more effective than against booted feet. As Rebecca insisted on heels on her shoes regardless of the occasion, she made a very firm impression on the man. She allowed herself to brighten slightly at the thought of his undignified howl of pain and her sudden release. Unfortunately, there were others prowling the garden that were not so lightly shod and were not concerned with manners at all.

She still felt the foul taste and texture of the gag thrust into her mouth as she opened it to scream. Her arms showed bruises where she'd been manhandled. Her lace mittens were in rags from the scuffle with the ruffians and her lace-decorated gown was much the worse for wear. Still, she was modestly covered, which was more than she could say for a couple of the other women who were in the cell when she arrived. Rebecca wished they had been better dressed; they might have left the dirty blanket behind when they were hauled out of the cell and taken away.

A shabby, dirty youth with greasy hair brought her a plate of something he seemed to think was stew. The plate was dirty. The spoon was dirty. Rebecca sat firmly on her snobbish side and ate. It wasn't very warm and the lumps were probably better left  
uninvestigated.

"I don't suppose you could get me something to wash this down with?"

He looked the disheveled girl over and smirked. "What'd ye gi' me for 't?" The once over she gave him visually made him feel awkward. Wasn't fair. He had the upper hand. This hoity-toity girl wasn't in any position to make him feel inferior.

"That depends on what you bring me," she finally answered him. She could see it wasn't the answer he was expecting. "Now, water, even cold water, isn't really worth all that much, unless one is greatly dehydrated and in danger of dying. Which I am not.  
Water might net you a light kiss on the cheek."

"Rum?"

"Rum? Well, now rum isn't something one drinks alone, is it?"

That netted a cheeky grin. Then he considered. There were barrels of the stuff around the room, but the boss was very particular about stealing. "'t'ud be stealin'."

She blinked. Morals? About stealing? When he was standing guard over a kidnapped woman? She filed that mentally to be examined when she had some leisure. "Then I suppose water it is."

The idea did not appeal to the young man who obviously had other ideas, yet appeared afraid to act on them. He shuffled off into the darkness leaving her wondering just what was to happen to her. Perhaps the idea was to make her so afraid and weakened that she  
would not fight their advances. She pondered this while carefully chewing something in the stew. She wasn't quite as innocent as her brother thought her. She did have some understanding of the dealings between men and women. Faulty as she was beginning to  
suspect they might be. Several of the men her Great Aunt had presented to her showed every sign of being un-intimidated by her height and more than willing to put hands where she'd never had someone else's hands put. None of them appealed to her. She borrowed Great Aunt Hermione's down the nose stare and would have reveled in their discomfort if she could have done so.

The stare was not useful here. She looked around her prison again. One dilapidated cot. One noisome chamber pot. She supposed she should be thankful for the container so that she did not have to contemplate some other situation for relieving that sort of discomfort.  
Still, it could do with emptying and there was nowhere to do so. No window. Since her prison was an adjunct to the storage of rum and wines, she supposed she must be nicely underground. It was very discouraging.

She heard her jailer coming back. Was that clink? Glass on glass? He came into view carrying not one or two but three dusty glass bottles of varying design. He grinned. Oddly, it wasn't a leering, salacious sort of grin; it was more a happy puppy dog "look at the wonderful, smelly, dead thing I've brought you" sort of grin. She watched as he carefully set the bottles on the small, rickety table. He rummaged in his pockets until he found and extracted a set of glasses. No wonder he was beaming. They might not be the  
cleanest cut crystal goblets she'd ever seen, but they were real crystal.

He took out a shabby handkerchief and carefully wiped out the glasses, then wiped off the necks of the bottles before he opened the most exotic looking one. He poured two glasses, then gave her a considering look.

"'ere. I let yer out, ye'll not be silly, will yer?"

Rebecca's eyebrows rose. She nearly bit her tongue to keep from asking him to define silly. "I promise I will not do anything silly. Word of a Fogg."

Something in her tone as she added the latter made him nod his acceptance. He pulled a big key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. He even found a smallish barrel for her to sit on while she finished her dinner and joined him for a drink.

"This is the best rum."

"How can you tell?"

He smiled. "I knows th' maker. He's that good, he is. This be his best." He set one glass in front of her and waited.

She set her plate down, hoping it would resist the impetus of gravity and not slide down the gently sloping tabletop. She sniffed the distillate carefully. The aroma was pleasing, not too strong, nothing like the whiskey her father had drunk or the brandy her brother sometimes nursed through a long evening of study. She took a small sip. Well, that  
wasn't too bad. Strong, but not too strong. She took a drink.

My, it was warm suddenly. It felt rather like a small, very hot furnace had just been stoked in her immediate vicinity. The back of her throat burned. "My." Words failed her.

The man beamed and took a drink himself. "Ah. Tha's th' good stuff it is."

Rebecca fanned herself absently with one hand and took another drink. It certainly took the chill off. "I can see where one can quite enjoy this drink." A wicked grin curved her lips suddenly. "Much better than the tawdry stuff you get at balls when you're my age," she said with a laugh.

He looked curious. He'd seldom been this close to a young woman, let alone one of quality. A pity the boss had an order for her. She wasn't flighty at all and she wasn't a screamer and whiner, either.

For an hour, Rebecca regaled the young man with tales of balls and nobility and country life. After the first two glasses, he didn't seem to notice that Rebecca wasn't drinking as heavily as he was. By the end of the second bottle, she was beginning to wonder how he was staying upright and was completely convinced that she would never manage the walk back to her cell, much less anything any farther. That didn't stop her from sliding off the barrel and checking to see if he was still alive when he finally set the empty glass very carefully on the table and slid boneless-ly to the floor. His snore reassured her that he wasn't dead.

She achieved the vertical with less difficulty than anticipated. Only slightly unsteady, she made her way into the darkness from which her jailer had emerged earlier. Within ten minutes she was steadily cursing, in a very ladylike manner, the inventor of the crinoline, the Empress Eugenie who made them fashionable and anyone else who had anything to do with women's fashions. Five minutes after that, having become trapped between two of stacks of barrels, she lifted her skirts and dispensed with the underlying crinoline. It was one thing to float across a ballroom floor in the unwieldy thing and decidedly another to be running for one's life in confined quarters.

After what seemed like hours and was probably no more than another five minutes, she struck her foot against the side of a stairway. The pitch darkness was not helping. Nor did the locked door at the top of the short flight of stairs. She sat down on the landing and fought back a strong desire to burst into tears. She disliked locked doors. She also squashed a base desire to kick the door. That would do no good and she knew it. An annoying strand of hair trickled down her shoulder and into her bodice. She yanked up the offending lock and tried to tuck it back into her hairdo.

Her strong nimble fingers encountered a hairpin. Frustrated, she shoved it into her hair and forced another one out of place into her lap. Searching for it by feel in the dark was not functional. Abruptly, she realized that she held her own salvation in her hair. Quickly she yanked out several of the heavy pins holding her waist length hair atop her head. As the edifice tumbled about her shoulders, she tried to remember what the very shortly employed stable boy had taught her when she was 10. There was a way to trip any lock, he'd told her. She just hoped her hairpins were long and strong enough to trip the tumblers.

Just as she was about to give up, the lock clicked. Holding her breath, she turned the door handle and was rewarded with an opening door. The hallway beyond was only slightly lighter than the black at the top of the stair. She stood in the doorway casting back and forth for some indication of which way to go. A glimmer of light appearing down to her left helped her make the decision. She pulled the door closed behind her, praying whoever was coming did not hear the click of the latch muffled by the fabric of her gown.

She picked up the front of her skirt and moved as swiftly down the hallway away from the light as she could. At the end was a small alcove with a very dirty small window. At least, it seemed dirty since she couldn't see out of the window. She pulled back into the alcove behind a musty hanging and waited to see what the light signified. After a time, she peeked around the hanging. The light was gone. There was no sound of pursuit. A part of her was curious to know where the light went. The rest was yammering to get  
out of the place and get out now.

She turned her attention to the window. The latch was long gone, the wood felt dry and crumbly under her fingers. Gently, she tried to lift the lower sash. It wouldn't budge. She applied a little more pressure. Nothing. She took a breath to calm down and applied all her strength to the window frame that promptly crunched in her hands leaving two broken places. The noise was incredibly loud in her ears. She stood, frozen in place and waited for what felt like an eternity for some reaction. When there wasn't one, she decided to work on the problem another way and kicked out the lower window. The air coming in was refreshing and wet. It was drizzling.

Certain that she was about to be apprehended again, she stuck her head out the window and looked around. There was a narrow alleyway below her. Good. She was in town. The walls opposite her were dark. No lights shown in the alley at all. She looked down. The drop didn't seem very far in the darkness, she prayed it wasn't very far. Then again, perhaps a girl with a broken leg wouldn't be appealing to whomever it was that took her in the first place. With that thought, she tried to get through the window. Being narrow, the opening was not inclined to deal with the yards and yards of fabric making up her skirt.

In a fury of fear and anger, Rebecca took up a piece of glass and slashed at the seams of her bodice until it gave way, releasing her from the bondage of cloth. She refused to look down at the puddle of expensive destruction around her ankles as she untied the  
remaining petticoat with its stiffened lower edge. She might be indecently unclad, but she would be free. She slipped out the window, dangled by her hands for a few eternal moments and let go. The slick soles of her shoes slid on the wet pavement, landing her on her butt. She scrambled up; ignoring the dirt, mud and whatever else she might have landed in. A quick glance up showed a light moving toward the window. She shrank  
against the side of the building and tried to blend into the darkness, ignoring the white undergarments she wore and her own pale skin. Luckily, there was a slight overhang between her and the head that poked out.

"Someone's broke the winder."

An indeterminate answer came from within.

"How'm I s'posed t' know? Ain't out there now. Rouse the fool and see the gal's there."

The head disappeared. Rebecca counted to ten and eased down the wall toward what she hoped was a street. She resolutely did not consider what she would do once there. She also ignored the sinking feeling in her middle that she would not come out of this night  
unscathed. She could hear noises behind her probably signifying that they'd discovered her escape. 

She took a deep breath and took to her heels, not entirely certain where she was running to but very certain where she was running from. As luck would have it, she made it about three blocks of dark building before she took a chance on a right turn and slammed hard into something a little more yielding than a building. With a double "oof" sound, a pair of arms went around her and steadied both Rebecca and the somewhat aromatic gentleman into whom she had just caromed. Retaining her balance, the red head stood very still and didn't realize she was holding her breath in fear until her lungs mentioned that air might be a nice addition.

The man holding her smelled of rum and spice. The fabric of his coat felt nicer than the rough of those who had captured her. Gingerly, she tried to back up. She felt relief when the arms loosened around her.

"Sorry, luv." She could hear the slightly leering grin in the voice. Backing up, he struck a match and lit a stub of candle he pulled out of a pocket. The face it lit was sharp featured framed by unfashionably long hair. He took a look up and down, then frowned. He apparently found something off about her appearance. The sound of pursuit was faintly heard approaching. The light went out, his hand found hers and he pulled her after him swiftly into a darkened doorway, placing himself between her and the potential problem.

The pursuit went past. He pulled her out and proceeded down the street with Rebecca in tow trying frantically to find her voice and perhaps object to his cavalier pre-emption of her escape. She smothered an incipient giggle and followed as best she could, her feet slipping occasionally on the slick pavement.

"Please," she finally gasped as he slowed and looked around.

"Please what, luv?"

"Please could I get my breath? Why are you helping me?"

Again he took them into the shelter of a recessed doorway and lit his candle stub. He looked in her smudged face, fallen hair and no longer pristine undergarments. "You're in the wrong place at the wrong time, my gel. It's not the kind of neighborhood ye'd be in if ye weren't in trouble, savvy?"

She took a good look herself and realized there was a deal of intelligence in the dark eyes, and a world of experience. The latter troubled her a bit, but not enough to object to his continuing to help her. "All right. What now?"

"Who's chasing ye?"

"I don't know. I was at a ball – two days ago, I think. They took me from the garden. I didn't see anyone except the man who guarded me. I didn't see anyone else clearly, not to identify," she corrected herself.

"Ye've had rum to drink, but not enough to dull yer senses." A knowing grin lit his face. "I'd bet the lad guarding ye has a big head tomorrow."

"If he lives to see tomorrow," she shot back, her look troubled at that thought.

He gave her another look. "Ye've escaped from the lad, yet ye be concerned for his fate. 'Tis a wonder ye are, lass. Happens I know a gent as can be of help to ye."

He snuffed his light, waited for the wax to cool a bit and then stripped off his coat to put around her shoulders. As the clouds above parted for a moment to light the street, she saw he wore a leather vest over a full-sleeved shirt. With the hair, he looked a figure out of another time. Just as the moon passed behind another cloud she thought she saw something else as he turned to speak again. She shook her head. She couldn't have seen what she thought she glimpsed, could she?

A few blocks further on, the man hailed a hansom cab. It wasn't what Rebecca was used to, but beggars couldn't be choosers, could they. She hurried into the cab as he gave directions. He climbed in and closed the door as the cab lumbered forward. Rebecca became very aware of her state of dress or lack thereof. She could not recall being this close to another human being and this undressed since she was a very small child and her nanny had dressed her.

She corrected that with a mental shake. Her Great Aunt Hermione's dresser had, of course seen her thus clad as had her own maid while she was in her Aunt's home. She smiled as she recalled how hard it had been to deal with having someone in the room while she dressed. She still wasn't completely used to the audience, so to speak, but both the maid and the dresser were so impersonal about the situation that they might have been moving furniture. This was different. She was uncomfortably aware of the man as he sat opposite her.

"Do you have a name? I'd like to know who to thank when I'm finally safe." She could sense his grin. He was taking pleasure in her discomfort.

"Good way to word it, luv."

"Would you please stop calling me that!"

"I've no name to put to ye, lass," he pointed out reasonably.

"Rebecca. Rebecca Fogg."

"Fogg. I've heard the name before."

"There are a number of members of the family. Perhaps you met one?"

"Perhaps." He regarded the darkness where she sat for a long moment. "Jack," he finally broke that silence. "Cap'n Jack Sparrow, at yer service."

For a moment, she had a vision of him in century old garb sweeping a feathered tricorn hat off his head in a courtly bow. The vision was immediately replaced with one of him straightening and clapping the hat back on his head with a cheeky grin. She wished Phileas were here to tell her what to make of the man. His judgment of people was so – so spot on. It occurred to her that half of the problem with being presented was the lack of her brother's presence.

She sniffed. Jack cocked is head in inquiry, knowing full well the girl couldn't see him. "Feelin' blue?"

"What? Oh, no," she denied immediately. She shivered inside his coat, the overwhelming fright of her experience suddenly coming very much to the fore. "I – " she gulped back a shuddery breath that threatened to become a sob. "I just … I wish my brother was here," she ended on a forlorn note.

"Good man to have about in a fright, is he?"

"He's very – comforting. My Aunt is going to be so angry." Tears welled up in her eyes and refused to be blinked away. She was aware of Jack shifting over to the seat beside her. She knew she should have shrunk away from the arm he put around her shoulders, but it felt much more comforting than threatening, so she put her arms around him and just held on for a few minutes. Jack was solid and real and was not threatening her virtue or anything else. She leaned her head against his chest, her ear pressed to his vest over his heart. He was really very comforting.

She stayed there, calming down for several minutes. Then it occurred to her that there was something she wasn't hearing. She listened very hard. It still wasn't there. Slowly, she straightened up until she thought she was probably face to face with him. She could feel the brush of his cool breath against her skin. The moonlight broke through the uncovered window of the cab and she drew back in shock.

Where she had seen the strong, attractive face by candlelight, there leered a skull. Thin, lank locks of hair fell around the bones and rotting flesh. The only things alive were his eyes. There was a mocking look those. She stifled a scream in her throat. His arm was still resting on her shoulder and he made no move as she reacted.

"Interesting, ain't it?" his rich voice asked in an almost disinterested tone.

The moon fled behind more cloud cover and blackness descended again as the cab drew to a halt. He removed his arm from her shoulder so he could turn and open the door. He stepped out, turning and offering her a hand. In the flickering torchlight she could see him again and he looked perfectly normal. She took a deep breath, released it and accepted his assistance out of the cab.

He released her hand and went to pay the driver. As he stepped away, her jaw dropped. Nestled in an open area was the most unbelievable thing she'd seen, except maybe his skeleton trick. It looked something like a ship, a sleek, slender ship, but it was surmounted by odd towering spike looking things and then a network of woven ropes holding a half inflated balloon. The area was lit by several dozen torches giving the whole a golden glow. It was magnificent and surreal at the same time.

"What is that?" she asked as the cab drove away.

"That? That's the Aurora," he answered nonchalantly as he held out his hand to her again. She took it and allowed him to lead her toward the vehicle.

As they approached, the door opened and Passpartout looked out. He scowled at Jack before he took in the condition of his companion. "You are rescuing the distressing damsels again," he greeted Jack as he waved them in. "I am being Passpartout."

"Fogg. Rebecca Fogg," she responded automatically. The name seemed to mean something to him. She didn't have a chance to ask what before she was swiftly ushered into a well appointed bath area with thick Turkish towels and scented bath water at the perfect temperature. There was even a water closet of the most modern construction.

"You are being comfortable and having new clothing when you are done. I am bringing food to Captain Sparrow and to you when you are finished becoming more comfortable, yes?"

"Yes. Thank you."

With that, he vanished out the door, pulling it closed behind him. Then he knocked. She opened the door curiously. He handed her a key. "Privacy being ensured, yes, Miss Fogg?"

She rapidly blinked back the tears that started in her eyes and nodded with a grateful smile. "Thank you. I won't be long. I promise."

"Missy taking as long as she is needing, yes? Food is being prepared. Call Passpartout if Missy is needing anything."

She locked the door and turned to face the tub. Hot water. It steamed gently lifting scents of lavender and spice. As she stripped slowly out of Jack's coat and her own things, she began to cry. By the time she was seated in the hot water, soaking out the chill and aches of the last couple of days, she was sobbing as quietly as she could. Finally, with a gasping gulp, she plunged her head under the water to see if she could break the cycle. As she surfaced, it worked. She was still upset and frightened, but she was calmer. The water felt wonderful. The soap was nicely scented. As the water cooled and she cleaned up, she found she was feeling better. She dried off, inspecting the bruises left by her recent problems.

There was a dressing gown and some definitely feminine undergarments, along with an embarrassing nightgown. Rebecca picked up the lacy item and shook it out. She found she wasn't the least embarrassed by the revealing item as she slipped it on. Then she pulled on the quilted dressing gown and unlocked the door.

While Rebecca was bathing and easing her emotional turmoil, the master of the Aurora returned to find Jack Sparrow sitting in front of his fire and downing tankard after tankard of rum in a vain attempt to get drunk.

"Still not working?"

"What do you think?"

"I think I know where the chest is." The look Verne got was unreadable. Verne thought it was probably because Jack was not certain about his own reactions to the news.

"Where?" Jack's voice was husky.

"Gregory."

Jack downed the rest of his drink and tossed the glass into the fire. "Fat lot of good that does me. I ain't tanglin' with that one."

"You already have."

For just a moment, the deadly thing Jack could be flickered in his dark chocolate gaze. Then it was gone and he was the devil-may-care person Verne usually had problems with. "Then I'll be off. Ta." He saluted him with a wry grin and headed for the door. He turned abruptly as Passpartout entered with food. He inhaled deeply. "Dinner sounds good."

"You can't even taste it."

"I can smell it," Jack countered.

Verne smiled. "So you can." He turned to look at the red haired young woman joining them. "And you must be Rebecca Fogg." His dark eyes twinkled as he looked her over. From the wealth of red hair falling about her shoulders and down her back to the elegant pale feet peeping out from beneath the hem of the dressing gown she was lovely. She held herself erect with a regal look, in spite of the traumas of the past few days and finding herself in the presence of three men in her nightdress.

"Yes. I've met Passpartout and Captain Sparrow. You are?"

"Jules Verne. Writer, poet, playwright …" He bowed as he took her hand and kissed it in the most debonair of continental manners.

"Mr. Verne. I've heard of you. My Great Aunt speaks highly of your productions." She looked around at the interior of the craft. "I'm not certain that explains this place, but …"

"Dinner, she is serve," Passpartout cut across all conversation.

Dinner passed with odd snippets of conversation. Rebecca let the other two talk while applying her attention to the food, which was excellent. Finally, Passpartout cleared away the dishes and brought the gentleman brandy and cigars. He seemed a little off as to what to offer Miss Rebecca, as he kept calling her.

"Nothing. I am very tired. I would like to know when I should return to my Great Aunt."

"In the morning. I will send Passpartout to find you a suitable outfit in which to return home. I will also see to it that your reputation is guarded, Miss Fogg."

"Can you? I've been gone at least two days.."

"Three. But, with your brother coming to town to see you, what could be more natural than you're desire to see him."

"Phileas? Here? No." She felt a disturbing agitation at the thought of her brother being in London and could not think of a single good reason why she should think that way. She looked from one man to the other and back. "He's not here … is he?"

Verne regarded her curiously for a moment. "I have no information on the current whereabouts of your brother, Miss Fogg. Why the concern?"

"I'm not sure. I just … I have a very firm conviction he should not be here. That .. that there is some danger. What are you not telling me?" She felt certain there was something more to this meeting than an accidental succor.

Verne sighed. "Sparrow has nothing to do with this. I believe there is someone who is interested in your brother may attempt to lure him to London."

"Phileas will be visiting me in two weeks. Should I tell him not to?"

Verne considered. "Perhaps rather than stopping his arrival, you should merely confirm it," he suggested. "When we have seen you to your Aunt's, write to your brother. Once you know exactly when he will be here …" he let the thought dangle. The girl was smart enough to draw her own conclusions. "Now, mademoiselle is tired, I am sure. You have had a very stressful adventure. Passpartout will show you to your room where you may rest untroubled."

Verne stood and offered his hand to her. Faced with such a graceful and considerate dismissal, Rebecca shook hands and retired for the night. She resolutely put all thought of what her Great Aunt would say when she finally returned on the morrow out of her mind and settled down to get some real sleep.

Out front Verne and Sparrow sat and regarded each other in silence. After a while, Sparrow grinned and nodded. "I'll take the late watch."

"It's appreciated. I have an appointment in an hour. While Passpartout is capable in many ways .."

"He ain't got me charm."

"No. He hasn't."

"Ye said Gregory has me treasure."

"I said he is rumored to have an Aztec chest. Given what little I've learned, it may be the one you seek."

"What would he be doin' with me chest and gold? If the gold's been taken .."

"I don't believe Count Gregory knows anything about the gold save that it is gold and a great deal of it."

"Verne, there be more gold lying loose about me safe harbor than in that chest. If he knows naught about the treasure inside, why take the bloody chest? 'tis heavy and not easy to move."

The younger man pondered this as he sipped his brandy and paced up and down the room. "Perhaps he does know of the rumored curse. The Count is already cursed. Perhaps he has research being done to see what good the curse could do him, or what harm."

Sparrow looked curious as he thought about that. He didn't know a lot about Count Gregory, only that he was dangerous and had aspirations of controlling the world in a manner as yet not attempted by normal mortals. "Being a walking dead man?"

Verne considered his companion for a moment. Sparrow was an iffy ally at best, but a good man to have on ones side if he could get him there. There wasn't much Verne had told the man about the Count. He made a decision and sat down. "Count Gregory is a walking dead man. He's worse than that. He's used technology of his own invention and alchemy to keep himself alive for over a thousand years."

"Then what's he want with an Aztec curse?"

"We don't know that he does want anything to do with the Aztec curse. He may just want the gold to help his finances. That gold would melt into indistinguishable ingots with ease."

Jack hoped his horror at that thought did not cross his mobile face. If the gold were removed from the chest, it would attach the curse to those who removed it. Once it was melted into ingots, perhaps mixed with other gold, there was no chance of breaking the curse. Not that Jack was entirely certain he wanted to break the curse. There were things he missed, of course, but not enough to take chances with being mortal again. The famous Captain Jack Sparrow luck had to run out some time. Yet there had always been the safety net, always the out if he wanted it. This Count Gregory might just have removed that out.

"What if it's already gone?"

"I think we'd know it. The effects are instantaneous, aren't they?" Jack nodded. "Then I think my people would have met their match, so to speak, already if the Count knew what he had. An undead army …"

"Eight hundred and eighty one soldiers who cannot die."

Verne frowned. He repeated the number curiously. "Why only that number?"

"Because," Jack said, as though he had repeated this information too frequently. "There are only 882 of the coins in the chest. If ye assume one coin to one man …"

"Less the one you carry."

"Aye. Less the one I carry."

While Verne and Sparrow debated the wisdom of trying to get the chest and the gold out of the hands of Count Gregory before he found out what he had, Phileas Fogg was pacing the small bedroom into which he was locked. The door was iron reinforced and barred on the outside. The windows were also barred and shuttered. The Count did not expect his people to exist in much comfort. The bed was hard, the sheets damp, the blanket thin and the carpet was threadbare. The water in the ewer next to the bowl was stale and he did not want to contemplate the residue in the chamber pot.

He tested the bars on the window. They were stout. He tested the door. No luck. Somehow, he had to get out of here and away from the mad thing calling itself Count Gregory. Unfortunately, after three days ride and his betrayal into the Count's hands, Phileas didn't have much to go on. At least Rebecca did not seem to be involved in any way.

He finally lay down on the bed and tried to sleep. His dreams were not restful. Most of them concerned his sister in Count Gregory's hands, or in the harem of a sheik or Turk. As little as he knew of other cultures, the dreams were lurid, if chastely so.

Dawn crept over the city. The early day sweeps and cleaners came out and did their jobs before the more affluent dwellers were up and about. The kidnappers retired to their lair and explained to their boss that the idiot boy had let the girl go. The boss soundly beat the young man and sent him on his way before communicating with a certain arrogant lord that his quarry was not available and he would have to wait.

About seven Rebecca awoke feeling refreshed and momentarily confused. Memory returned. Great Aunt Hermione! Heavens! What could she have been thinking of to spend the night here instead of returning immediately home to her Aunt? She threw back the covers and reached for the robe. She needed a dress immediately and … and the smell of breakfast assailed her as she opened the door. Her mouth watered. Then her eyes fell on the dress hanging on the outside of the door. It was perfect. She pulled the clothing into the room and hurriedly changed. She tried to ignore the fact that the undergarments supplied were of silk instead of cotton. The fabric was very soft against her skin. The dress was demure and fashionable, just the correct combination for a woman of her age and position. How very marvelous these people were. It fit perfectly.

Passpartout was serving Jack and Verne breakfast. All three looked up and the reactions were certainly appreciative. Rebecca felt her color heighten slightly at such open admiration. Verne stood to welcome her. Jack, not quite the gentleman he appeared, was a little slower in getting to his feet. Passpartout held her chair as she sat.

"Good morning, gentlemen."

"Good morning, Miss Fogg."

"Good mornin', luv."

She refrained from pointing out that she had requested him not to call her that. Something now told her that it was a habit he would make no effort to break. "I did not ask last night. Do either of you know who was responsible for my kidnapping?"

"There is a brisk trade in women in this town. Lately, there has been a great deal of desire for blondes and red heads," Verne answered. "Slavery has not been completely eradicated, nor is it illegal in much of the rest of the world."

"Surely taking a woman out of an upper class garden is more dangerous than most common slavers would wish, Mr. Verne," she shot back.

He smiled. So, the girl wasn't stupid. "Very true. Normally they stick to newcomers and women on their own in areas that are not so sensitive to such disappearances."

"Then someone went to some trouble to target me. I do not care for that, Mr. Verne. Having been thwarted are they likely to stop?"

"That, my gel, depends on the man and why he wants ye."

Both of them looked at Jack. "If a man's obsessed, he'll do foolish things. If he's angry and not too smart, he'll do stupid things. The question is, who've you angered?"

She smiled at him. "Don't think I'm the sort to inspire obsessions?" There was a glint of steel in her gaze.

He regarded her solemnly. "Don't get me wrong. Ye're a fine lovely wench. But ye've a lot of spirit and ye've an arrogant streak. A man don't come up to standards, ye'll have naught t'do with him. Some men don't care t'be told they ain't man enough for a wench."

"That's insane."

"Aye. That it is, lass. True all the same."

She looked at Mr. Verne. "How would one find out if one has developed such an enemy?" The innocent look she received did not deceive her. "Oh, don't. Mr. Verne, you may be a successful playwright and writer and many other things, but that doesn't explain this … this ship."

"The Aurora?" He laughed. "I am also a gambler, Miss Fogg. I won the Aurora, and Passpartout as well."

"What?"

"Perhaps I should say, Passpartout's services. The Marquis had no use for the man's superb services if he did not have the Aurora. Passpartout is my captain and engineer as well as my chef. I am just what I seem."

"Ah. Which is why you were not in the least put out by my arrival with Captain Sparrow last night and did not make the immediate assumption one might expect of a man of the theater. After all, I was not suitably clad and, with all due respect, Captain Sparrow does not strike me as the sort who frequently shows up on the doorstep with rescued ladies of virtue."

For a moment she had silenced him. The sharp dark eyes met her gaze and he smiled. "It is possible that I can find out for you if you have such an enemy. It may take some time."

"It is to be hoped that if there is such an enemy, I have the time."

Mid-morning, Rebecca Fogg went up the steps of her Great Aunt's house in the high end of London. She knocked on the door that was opened by her Great Aunt's butler who broke his normally stoic demeanor and reacted to her presence.

"Good morning, Hawthorne. Is my aunt in?"

"In the drawing room, Miss Rebecca. May I say we are glad to see you home?"

"Thank you, Hawthorne."

She sailed into the drawing room to greet her aunt. "Good morning."

"Rebecca! - Where have you been, girl?"

"Kidnapped. Rescued. Terrified. Oh, Aunt Hermione, it was awful!" At which Rebecca Fogg quite deliberately burst into tears.

In the agitation of her kidnapping and escape, Rebecca tearfully requested that if one of the servants could be spared, could they please go make certain that Phileas was all right. Great Aunt Hermione didn't think Phileas could be in any difficulty, but to ease her Great Niece's nervous reaction, she was perfectly willing to send one of her servants to check on that young man. Especially when Rebecca was quite capable of deciding to go herself to check on him if she was balked of the more reasonable request.

While she waited for the servant to return, Rebecca told her Aunt that she had not been molested and had been as comfortable as one could be in the circumstances. She was bruised and frightened, but not really hurt and no man had done anything that would make her damaged goods. The comment was bitter when it came in answer to her Great Aunt's about twentieth inquiry to make certain Rebecca had not been sullied.

"I have not been touched! I have been kidnapped, incarcerated, escaped and been rescued by a very kind gentleman who had absolutely no obligation to either help or hinder me. I was kept safe last night and delivered to your door. I am not in the habit of lying."

Aunt Hermione nodded in a satisfied manner at the snap in her niece's voice. "Good. Sorry to have been harsh, but I needed to make certain you weren't taking it worse than you should have."

"Worse than I … Aunt Hermione!"

The old woman smiled. "That's the spirit, gel. Get angry, you should be."

Rebecca laughed. "I am. But mostly I'm angry that I couldn't defend myself when it happened. After all, there isn't always a man around to help one." She wondered what her aunt's speculative look was all about. The answer wasn't long in coming.

"There may be something that can be done about that. I've had my speculation about you. You're not the general run of gal about right now."

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious, Aunt."

"Don't be uppity. It wasn't a criticism. You've got more brain than most young gals do and you're not afraid to use it. Some think you've spent more time with your brother than you should have. I'm not that foolish."

"Someone needs to keep him out of trouble."

"Someone needs to make sure his talents don't get him into trouble," her aunt responded dryly. "Give me a couple of days to see what I can do. I've a few friends who aren't quite so stodgy as you might think."

By the end of the week after Rebecca's adventure, she was once again on edge. The servant sent to check on Phileas had not returned and had sent no word. She sensed that her Great Aunt was not sanguine about the lack of information. Rebecca did not yet know that Great Aunt Hermione was pulling strings and calling in favors from some old friends, a few of whom did not want to do what Hermione wanted them to do.

Monday morning, Rebecca dressed carefully, told her Aunt she was going to the library and left for several hours. She returned looking not as happy as she might have. The Aurora was no longer moored in the park. Barring its return, Rebecca had no idea how to contact Mr. Verne or where she might locate Captain Sparrow. Waiting patiently was not one of her strong points, but it looked like she would have some practice while she figured out where else to turn for help in locating her brother.

She might not have been so hasty in her deliberations had she know that the Aurora was attracting attention not far from the small, well kept up house she and Phileas had inherited from their parents. While Jack Sparrow wandered the nearby small town attracting attention and observing, Verne and Passpartout occupied their time investigating the house. The servants were a closed mouth lot, all three of them. The cook looked on the two men suspiciously when Verne explained he was looking for a country property and had heard of one in the area.

"Is this perhaps it?" He tried his utmost to be charming.

Charm was not working. The cook told him to be off about his business in no uncertain terms. The master was not interested in selling out to the likes of him.

"But he is interested in selling?"

"Ain't here. Gorn off. Come back when the Master's here and not before. Now off w'ye. I've work to do."

The groom was little more help, although he volunteered that the master and some transient had taken off a week or so earlier on the best horses. Where they were bound he did not know. The Master had taken a portmanteau with him, but that was for overnight, not for a long stay.

The three men met back up at the Aurora and compared notes. Jack confirmed that Master Fogg and an unknown man had ridden through town at a swift pace before opening up to a gallop on the main road.

"If Missy Fogg's kidnap is not being trap laid for Master Fogg, what is going on?" Passpartout hit the center of the matter as he served Verne and Jack luncheon.

"What indeed. What have we found out about the Foggs? We know they are young and related closely. Who are they? Who is their family?"

Passpartout handed his master an envelope. "Is being delivered as we are taking off."

Verne opened it and perused the contents. A faint frown furrowed his brow. "Miss Fogg has made a powerful enemy, it seems. Lord Edgerton is not a man to take being rebuffed lightly." He looked up at Jack. "The man's a menace. If he did not have friends at both St. James and in the French court, he would be dead already, I think."

"Never harms a filly what belongs ter someone of rank, but takes what he wants otherwise?" Jack elucidated for himself.

"Precisely. Not a good man to cross. Miss Fogg is sufficiently well connected to make her borderline, but not well enough protected to keep him from trying. To echo Passpartout, I am truly not liking that man."

"Her brother? Get him out of the way?"

"I don't think so. There's very little about Fogg in here. The only tidbit that looks promising is this." He handed over the sheet outlining a few intriguing leaps of intuition demonstrated by the young man while at university. "He seems to have a knack for putting things together." Jack looked bemused and shrugged. Intuition could save a man or kill a man. It did not have a great deal of credibility in his book. "If such intuitions were applied to the Count's dealings …"

Jack regarded Verne suspiciously. "Sounds like you've got something up your sleeve other than your arm."

Somewhere in London, Phileas Fogg awoke from another restless night. Weak sunlight fought its way through the grubby, barred window into the small, threadbare bedroom into which the Count's goons had locked him. He was not happy at his incarceration or at the lack of amenities afforded the Count's "guests". He was not allowed to shave, nor had he been given his bag containing a change of clothes. Food arrived once a day in the hands of a guard as likely to throw the tray on the floor as to hand it to Phileas. He was hungry, tired, cold and frightened. In the single interview he'd endured since that first harrowing introduction he managed to keep from letting the blustering tin-pot tyrant know just how frightened he was. How long he could keep up the front he did not know.

He heard footsteps approaching and retreated from the door. The steps were lighter than the usual thumps of the booted guards, but that made little difference. The sounds stopped at his door. A click and the door opened. The woman who lured him into this trap stood observing him. He turned his back to the door, ignoring the cold-footed evil little creature skittering up and down between his shoulder blades.

"What? You still mad at me?"

Silence. He refused to dignify the question with an answer. He wasn't mad. The word did nothing to encompass his feelings. Only his upbringing, which was very correct, kept his mouth closed on words that his father assured him should never be used about or in the presence of a woman, regardless of provocation.

She looked at him curiously. Most men were cussing or begging by now. She really had expected this boy to fold in the face of the Count and this treatment. "All right. You're angry because you were tricked."

The face he turned toward her was cold and a little unnerving. "You used my sister's name to lure me here. You made me think she was in danger with no thought to how that might make me feel. While I am relieved that she is not in the hands of this abomination calling itself Count Gregory, I am repelled by your ability to think nothing of the pain you caused."

She regarded him in surprise for a moment before laughing. She could not doubt his sincerity, but was there a bigger fool in England? "You fool," she said when she caught her breath. "Why would I care what "pain" I caused you? I had a mission to accomplish and I did so with all expediency. Would you prefer I waylaid you and knocked you on the head to abduct you? Foolish boy. Why cause myself so much discomfort and toil when I could as easily get you to come here on your own?"

"And had I not come without more provocation, say proof my sister was in danger? What then? Would you then have taken her captive and ill-treated her to get my attention?" He could read the answer in her hard face. Nothing was sacred to this woman or her employer. His very being revolted at the thought of allying with these people, or being "owned" by them. "Don't answer. I already see it. There is nothing of value to you save your own comfort."

"Oh, what a lordly answer. As though you ever gave a thought to another's comfort in your life."

Her words stung, not from justice, but from her lack of knowledge of his father and family. His head came up and he met her gaze squarely, his green eyes positively blazing. "Don't tar people you don't know with a universal brush, woman. You know nothing of how my family regards others or how much or little they have done to help those in need. How much does your Count do to help others? Not much, I should think given what I have seen of him so far."

"He helps those who are of use to him. I am of use to him. I do very well for myself because of the Count."

"Birds of a feather."

She tossed back her hair and glared at him. "Better to flock with the Count than to oppose him. He wants to see you. Now."

"I am disinclined to acquiesce to his request," Phileas ground out.

"Means "no"," a gravely voice translated from behind her.

She turned to see one of the Count's well-regarded and high-ranking military men. "Not surprising. What do you want?"

"The boy." He shoved her aside, strode into the room and laid a gloved hand on Phileas' arm. The grip was brutal. It went with the pockmarked, weather beaten face. "Come along."

Phileas considered resisting the man and thought better of it. He did not think he would get the best of the man if it came to a fight. For now, he would be docile, no matter how much it went against the grain. He did fight when it became apparent that the man had orders to clean up the prisoner. Four against one was overwhelming odds. Phileas suffered the indignity of a cold hosing off and a forced shaving before being left with clean clothes and told to be quick about getting dressed.

The clothes fit well, but were of a military cut that did not suit him. Still, it was better than the rags to which the brutes had reduced his suit. He ran a hand through his still damp hair, hoping it wasn't sticking up oddly and went out of the room. The man with the raucous voice was waiting for him, indulging in what apparently passed for dalliance with a garishly clad woman. He dumped the girl on the floor as Phileas walked into the hall.

"Better. Mind your manners, whelp."

He led the way to a well-appointed dining room. There was a long, well polished table with dinner laid for about twenty persons. The dishes and glassware gleamed against the dark wood of the table. His escort indicated he should sit.

The Count entered with escort. Half a dozen obvious military types entered behind the Count. Behind them came a number of nondescript looking men, some of them nervous. All of them took their places at the table and waited for the Count to be seated before sitting down. Servants entered with food and began serving. All the while, Phileas could feel the evil eyes of the Count on him. Finally, he looked up and met that horrible gaze.

The scarred and disfigured face was just as bad as he remembered. Without the thing leering in his face, he could take stock of exactly what he was seeing. It still looked like somehow a suit of armor had combined with a man. The result was horrendous and pathetic at the same time. Perhaps whatever accident caused this amalgam also caused the delusions the Count suffered making him believe he could topple dynasties and unit the world in some horrible single empire.

"Fogg."

The voice grated on him. He looked into the man's eyes, hoping to see some light of hope or reason there. There was nothing. "Count Gregory," he acknowledged him politely.

"What do you think of my people?"

Phileas tried not to blink in surprise. "I – I'm sorry, I don't know any of them. I have no opinion."

"No opinion. So polite. So stupid. Tell me what you see! 

Phileas started back in his chair. He was very aware of the man beside him, the man guarding him like he was some treasure. Treasure. For just a moment he saw a ship and a black flag. The Jolly Roger. The man was a pirate. He chanced a glance up and met the man's amused gaze. He saw gold, piles of gold that cut across centuries and cultures, and over it all this man's face barking orders and leering.

"Where's the monkey?" he asked before he could stop the words.

The man grinned at him. "Jack's not here. I keep him in me rooms, lad." He shot a triumphant look at the Count. "If ye've no more need for me here, my lord?"

The Count waved him away. He bowed and left, leaving Phileas intensely aware of the hot, pleased gaze of the Count.

Phileas knew now what the Count wanted of him. Rebecca had once said that his blasted intuitions would someday bring him fame or trouble. Infamy was more like it. He avoided looking at the others. He wanted to see nothing. The pirate wasn't bad, but he had a feeling that there were things lying under the surface of these people he did not want to see, that he did not want to reveal. It occurred to him that some of these might be in the same situation he was, that there might be unwilling participants in the Count's plans. What might he have done had he known Rebecca was in the Count's hands? Or if he had a child to threaten, what would he do then? There was nothing in his dealings with the Count to tell him that even an innocent would be safe from the monster's desires.

He looked up again at that horror and the intuitions took over. Innocence? The Count knew nothing of innocence. He knew only how to hurt and maim and twist those around him into what he wanted of them. Only power moved the Count. He did not respect others with the kind of power he wanted or wielded; he only hated them and wanted them removed from his path. The Count's world was dark, without hope, without human compassion, without understanding of human dignity or any of the concepts with which Phileas had been raised.

Eyes locked with the Count's, he was not aware of his hand groping on the table top among the silverware. Nor was the Count aware of anything save a battle of wills between them until a woman's voice cut through the thickening silence.

"Stop him!"

The pain as the knife he'd picked up entered his chest was a shock. So were the hands suddenly fighting him. He looked down curiously. Slender fingered hands somewhat reminiscent of Rebecca's were clamped around the wrist of his right hand. In his hand was the hilt of a sharp knife. About two inches of the knife seemed to be buried in his chest, quite accurately over his heart. He looked up, unmoved, to meet the wide dark eyes of his betrayer. There was unmistakable shock in those eyes, and something else.

Her eyes pleaded with him to stop even as her grip loosened. What did he care for her regard? Nothing. Yet a little voice far away in his mind argued that if she wished him to live so deeply, perhaps there was still hope. The angle of the blade changed slightly as it finished sliding into his chest. Had an x-ray been available, the blade could be seen to slide harmlessly between the heart and the heavy artery springing from it. Luck would have been credited for his thrust missing anything critical. The analysis would be wrong. Again, Phileas' talent came into play. He pulled the blade out, slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. Then he placed the hilt in her hand before closing his eyes and passing from consciousness.

A roar of rage from the Count broke the following dead silence. He erupted from his seat, throwing his followers from him as he advanced on the practically still life tableau at the end of the table. Without warning, the back of the Count's mailed fist caught the woman and sent her backwards onto the table, losing the knife and landing in disarray among the serving dishes. She knocked several away from her as she struggled to right herself.

"He's not dead," she whispered, finally finding her voice.

"What?" The Count rounded on her.

She shied back from him, but remained where she was. "He's not dead. Look. He breathes and bleeds. He needs a doctor."

As she expected, the Count grabbed her by the throat. The pressure of his hand closed on her neck. She could read her death in his cold eyes. Still, she knew better than to flinch or struggle. She did nothing to feed the killing lust within him. "If he dies …." The threat was not voiced as he released her.

She climbed off the table and motioned to two of the men to help her. "The infirmary," she ordered, ignoring the pain of her throat muscles when she spoke.

Phileas awoke several hours later to a feeling of constriction around his chest and thirst. The room was dark, lit only by a small oil lamp with the flame turned low. He shifted his head on the pillow. The walls were still gray with age and dirt but the room seemed different. The window. That was it. There were curtains on the window.

A rustle of cloth on cloth made him turn his head again. For a moment he thought Rebecca was there and he tried to remember what he'd done to himself this time. She moved into the light and it wasn't his sister. He turned his face away. Locked in a battle of wills with the Count, he had lost hope; this much he remembered. Why hadn't he finished things? Why was he still alive?

She moved around the bed to sit on the chair facing him. She set a carafe of water on the small night table and poured a cup. "Thirsty?" His stone-faced silence was the expected answer. She gave him one of those old-fashioned looks he frequently got from the women who knew him best. "Don't be stupid."

She helped him sit up and handed him the cup. He drank and handed it back. The silence grew between them. Finally, she could contain the question no longer.

"Why? Why did you do that?" The green eyes she found blazing full of life earlier were now dull with defeat. He returned no answer. "What do you want that the Count cannot give?"

"You wouldn't understand," he said softy. He met her frown and shook his head. "I'm not criticizing," he assured her, knowing that the assurance was needed and still fell on deaf ears. "You just don't have the background to understand. You've spent too much of your life struggling to stay alive. You've had no leisure to think of anything else. It's not a fault or wrong, it just is."

"You think I'm stupid."

"I think you're a survivor. I think you've done well to get as far as you have. You have the comforts denied you as a child." There was no need for his intuition to cut in; he could read the truth in her face. "Struggle to live is all you've known. There is no room for anything else. I'm not saying that you are wrong to see things the way you do, only that you will never know anything else. That saddens me."

Search his face as she would for some ulterior motive for his words, she could find none. Phileas Fogg was emotionally and spiritually drained from his battle to break free, to die and leave the Count with nothing. Only the true concern in her face had stopped his flight to freedom, whatever the cost. For the first time in her life, another person had taken her into account for something other than their own good and survival. Horror widened her eyes as she realized what she had done. In saving Phileas, she had assumed a responsibility she did not understand and did not want. Now she needed his answer to try to understand how her life had just changed.

"Why?"

"Because his world is dark and there is no room in it for anything but what the Count wants. There will be no freedom for anyone, including the Count. His fears will always dominate him, no matter how far his empire spreads, no matter how many he crushed, kills and dominates, there will always be that fear and he can allow no one else any freedom as long as he fears." He could not fight the tears that formed and trickled down his face. Count Gregory's world was a dark one with no light, no hope, no love, nothing to keep the human spirit alive. To stop Count Gregory, Phileas would take his own life and think nothing of it. But this woman whose name he didn't even know had stopped him. Something inside felt broken or missing. He didn't know exactly what had changed, but he knew she was the key. "You never told me your name."

Her name? "Lilith. They said she was the mother of all evil in the orphanage and that I was her spiritual image if not her physical one." Her voice was bitter.

"Lilith. According to the Hebrews, she was created as Adam was, to be his wife. She was proud and would not keep subservient. For this she was sent away. Some of the legends make her the consort of Lucifer or Satan and the mother of demons. In spite of the pain of the birth of her children, she is said to love them fiercely and be willing to destroy those who would harm them. It's strong name for a strong woman."

The man left her without words. Shaken, feeling a need to order her thoughts and find a way through this emotional maze she'd entered, Lilith told him to rest. "The water is infused with willow bark to ease the pain. There's stronger if you feel the need. I'll bring food … not the stuff you were getting. You need your strength if you're to recover. I'll be back soon. The staff has orders not to disturb you; although one or two may look in to see you're all right if I'm out. I'll be back."

He let his ears follow her quiet rustle out of the room. A part of him longed for the quite of his home in the country. A part of him didn't seem to care much what happened next. A tiny little part worried the look in Lilith's eyes and felt a little warmed that she might be more than the Count's servant where he was concerned. He closed his eyes and ran through one of the Psalms several times to combat the overload of his senses by visions of the people around him.

His mind fastened on the pirate and his monkey. The treasure was important somehow and not because it was gold and silver and jewels that could be used to buy things. There was something more. He tried to guide the flashes of knowledge and came back to one item over and over again. A chest. An oddly shaped chest narrower at the bottom than the top, carved from a single block of stone, carved with alien symbols and over all the vision of a skull in the moonlight.

Exhausted from trying to make sense of the vision and the dull throb in his chest, Phileas fell asleep.

He awoke to the smell of good food. A tray sat on a table next to the bed. He took a deep breath and winced. His whole torso ached as though he had been stabbed. He almost laughed but thought better of it. He had been stabbed; by his own hand in a desperate attempt to free himself from the Count and his twisted desires. He smelled the food again, his mouth watering at the scents. He eased up, took a drink of the water Lilith left for him and waited for the ache to ease.

He ate slowly. He turned his captivity over and over in his mind. The door to this room might as well be locked for the time being. Movement hurt. He wondered how he managed to miss his heart. He could feel it beating beneath his breastbone and could not imagine missing it with the knife in his own hand. Lilith was strong, but not strong enough to stop him. Perhaps he had not truly wished to die. He puzzled at this for a while before giving it over as an unsolvable problem.

He drank more of the water and eased back down onto the bed. How long had he been in the Count's hold? There were three days on the road with Lilith. Then another three days in the first room with perhaps a fourth day in this one? That made a week or more by his calculations. He should be making the house ready for his trip to London to see Rebecca.

He wondered how her introduction to society was going. He thought it a great pity that their mother's death so closely followed by father's passing had kept her tied up in mourning until two years later than most young women went through the rite. Then again, he considered with a faint smile, the well-educated hoyden that was Rebecca at sixteen might not have gone over well in London society. The extra two years of mourning had lent her a dignity and reserve she had not shown earlier.

He hoped she was enjoying her come-out. He had little taste for balls and parties, being of a studious nature and having been greatly discomfited at his own introduction to society by the intrusion of his intuitions about people. Realizing that most of the girls were setting their sites on titles and money rather than on a man's intrinsic worth, as a person was a very lowering reflection on the human race. Still, they had their reasons, both those of filial duty to parents trying to make a good match for them and the fact that a woman needed a man who could support and take care of her and the children to follow. He understood all this, but was still put off by the mercenary feel to the parties and celebrations throwing young people together.

Sometimes he wished he had been born in another time or place, somewhere his talents for literature and history might mean something. His lips curved in a smile as he considered that. Maybe somewhere Rebecca's penchant for swords and guns and things that blew up could be put to use instead of being an embarrassment. He shook his head over his sister. Much as he loved her, he could not help but see that she was not exactly marriage material to the upper crust of London society. She was far too much at home on horseback with a gun in her hand, or a bow, for that matter. They'd had the devil's own time trying to teach her not to grab up her skirts to run places and teaching her the waltz….

He chuckled in spite of the stabbing pains it brought on. Memories of exhorting her to mind her steps and not on his feet, please filled his thoughts. His joy stopped short as he felt a sudden sense of danger to Rebecca. There was danger hovering around her, some menace he could not see clearly. The Jolly Roger floated over all in some serene parody of his beloved flag. What did it mean? Unlike the man who hauled him into the dining room, there was no sense of evil in this flag. Then, over all, a medallion imposed itself, death's head skull grinning with impersonal glee. The thing terrified and fascinated him beyond all imagining. He fell into restless dreams where dark and light warred into infinity.

By morning, Phileas was feverish, muttering in his sleep and worrying Lilith. She ordered the medical personnel away from him and sought out a well-reputed and expensive doctor used by the well to do of London. She gave him no option but to comply with her wishes. He blustered under her threats, then capitulated with his own threat to set the law on her for kidnapping.

"Help me keep this man alive and you will be rewarded and can act on your threats, Doctor. I doubt the law will find me, but if it makes you feel better …"

He checked the wound and shook his head over the angry red puffed skin around the entry wound. He soaked off the scab sealing the wound and frowned over the yellow and clear liquid oozing out as he did so. All in all, it did not look as bad as others he'd seen on patients who survived them. He worked to clean the wound. It was close to the heart, which was always bad. Still, there was no sign of sweet smell, which ruled out gangrene starting.

"Keep the bandage loose. Check it every few hours and replace it if it becomes soiled. Keep the wound itself open to heal. You've given him willow bark?"

"Yes."

"Here. In case the pain increases and he needs to be kept calm." He set a small vial of opiate next to the water carafe. "A few drops in water. No alcohol until this is more healed. I know those who swear that laudanum and alcohol are good together, but I have seen it do more harm than good that way." He looked sharply at the woman to make certain she understood.

"Keep it clean. Loose bandaging. Keep the scab from sealing the wound while it heals. No more opium than absolutely necessary." She paraphrased his orders.

He smiled. "Wish I had more patients with nurses like you," he said without thinking. Then he frowned at her. "Kidnapping me is still not the proper thing to have done."

"Would you have come otherwise?"

He acknowledged the justice of her question. "I have done what I can."

She nodded and saw him back to his office. She was gone before he realized he had not said anything about charges. As he took off his overcoat, his hand encountered something heavy in his pocket. He pulled out a small bag. He did not recognize the item and opened it curiously. Gold coins spilled into his hand, more than enough to pay for his time and effort. Shaking his head, the doctor returned to his surgery to take up his interrupted day.

Rebecca Fogg sat up abruptly in the dark, sweat pouring off of her and a sense of doom enfolding her. She'd had a nightmare, of that she was certain, but the details were unclear. She slowed her breathing and lit the candle beside her bed. The flickering light cast shadows around the room. The neck of her nightgown was chill against her skin. Was it worth it to crawl out of the nice warm bed she occupied and change the gown or could she deal with the chill until the cotton dried? She settled back against the mound of pillows and discovered how uncomfortable the sweat soaked fabric was. She slid out from under the covers doing as little as possible to disarrange them and padded across her room to the wardrobe.

She was just pulling out a clean gown when she became aware of a scent. Spice and rum? She turned to survey her room. "Jack?" she said softly, wondering whether the man was actually here or if she was dreaming still.

He moved like a cat, sliding out of the shadows into the circle of light cast by the candle. There was a subtle difference about him. A red headband held his hair out of his face. There was also something in his eyes as he looked her over.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered. Never mind how he had entered the house and then her room without being seen.

"We've news. Verne's compliments and would you join us?" He kept his voice soft as well.

"Now? It's after midnight … Phil's in trouble, isn't he?" With a nod as much to herself as to him, she turned and started pulling out fresh clothing. She retreated behind a screen with a second candle to get dressed.

"Where is he?"

Verne looked at the annoyed redhead and shook his head. "I do not know."

"You don't know? Why? You knew enough to go looking for him. You have some idea of who wants him and why, even if you won't tell me. But you don't know where to find that person? Or my brother! And you stop smirking!" She turned her baleful look on Jack who was enjoying the scene.

He held up his hands in surrender. "Don't turn on me, luv. I've no more idea where your young whelp is than what Verne is up to."

The fulminating look she shot him was not reassuring until she turned her attention back to the Frenchman. "Well?"

"Miss Fogg, truly, if I knew where your brother was I would tell you. I do not. I am trying to find out."

"It's been over a week since he disappeared. He could – he could be dead."

"Doubtful. The Count does not take people only to kill them. He saw some use for your brother."

"And if Phileas would not be put to that use?"

Verne shrugged. "I don't believe he has had your brother long enough to decide he will not be of use." It was true as far as it went. Both he and Sparrow understood the wealth of speculation on what the Count could do to enforce cooperation was being left unsaid.

"What kind of person is this Count?" She saw the look that passed between the two men. "All right. He's unscrupulous. He has no problem kidnapping people. He .. would have no compunction about forcing a man of Phileas' character to …do whatever it is he wants Phileas to do. What kind of force could he bring to bear? Deprivation? Torture? Would he go so far as to break my brother to get Phileas to help him?"

If Verne thought this understanding of what they were up against would turn Rebecca away from the problem, he little understood the young woman with whom he was dealing. He saw fright in her face, but not for herself, for her brother. He also saw determination with little direction. He smiled at her. Very well, he would provide direction if that was what she sought.

"You are a young lady of good family … " He held up a hand to forestall her impulsive response. "You have many talents and graces. The question now is how do you wish to put those talents to use?"

She regarded him curiously. "Just what do you have in mind?"

"Much of that depends on you. How far are you willing to go to help your brother?"

Rebecca regarded him thoughtfully. "I would trade my life for my brother if it was necessary. I might be a bit squeamish about some other things, but I don't think I would let that stop me. I love my brother."

Verne nodded. "You are far wiser than most young ladies of your class, Miss Fogg. I salute that wisdom. Can you handle a gun?"

"Shotgun or pistol?"

That got a crack of laughter from Jack. "Sorry, luv, but it's the answer I expected. Both, I suspect."

She smiled back. "Both. My father felt that living in the country, it was best if I learned to handle a shotgun. Phileas taught me to shoot a pistol. He also taught me to handle a sword and – uhm – to – " Heavens, how miss-ish of her to stumble over telling these men he'd taught her the basics of fisticuffs.

"Boxing," Jack supplied.

"Er – yes. Mostly he just taught me how to – get away. Where I could hit hard and do the most damage. He wasn't concerned about things like rules .."

"When yer fighting for yer life, there are no rules."

"For once, Jack and I are in agreement. I am very pleased with your answers, Miss Fogg."

"Rebecca."

"Rebecca. I do not use women as operatives very often. You, Rebecca, will be the exception. I think you will be very surprising."

Rebecca made a mental note to remain wary of the Frenchman. Something told her that this association would last well beyond the rescue of her brother. She wasn't certain she disapproved of his desire to employ her, she just felt odd about the whole thing. Great Aunt Hermione was not going to be happy.

Great Aunt Hermione regarded her niece thoughtfully when she received the edited version of what Rebecca was doing. "Verne? I've always wondered about that airship of his. I don't suppose I can persuade you to let more experienced hands take care of your brother's disappearance. After all, he is 23 and a young man …" She let the thought trail off. It would never do to let her niece know how much better she would think of Phileas if he were missing in the arms of an entirely unsuitable young woman. Sometimes she thought the spirits of the two young people had hit the wrong bodies. Rebecca's strength and independence were so much better suited to the male of the species while Phileas' more retiring nature … well, there was naught to be gained by bemoaning the differences in temperament of her favorite family members.

"I wish it was that simple, Aunt. I really do. I would far rather find out he'd finally chosen a mistress or even a temporary lady than think what I do now." She looked up to find her Aunt regarding her with raised eyebrows, a hint of laughter lurking in the line surrounded eyes. "I'm not a fool or a simpleton, Aunt," she admonished severely, sitting on a strong desire to laugh. "Phileas is of an age and without a wife to tame him, it is what people expect, isn't it?"

"It is, but not what one wants to hear from a sister," the old woman said severely.

Rebecca's snort let her aunt what she thought of that foolishness. "I'm not a prude, aunt. Nor am I inclined to open my mouth around people who think I should be. Phil is in trouble and I am going to help him. I'm afraid that means I shall be missing a few of the wonderful entertainments you have laid on for me." The comment lacked in sincerity.

"Didn't want to go anyway, admit it."

That got a rueful grin. "I'm too tall and too serious and too .. much of everything, I think. I'm just not marriage fodder." She resolutely pushed away the sudden memory of a pair of liquid dark eyes in a tanned face. She was not going to lose her heart to that pirate, not at all.

Back on the Aurora, Jack was expounding why his involvement was a bad idea. Verne looked him straight in the eye and informed him in no uncertain terms that having an immortal, however annoying, on ones side during a confrontation with the Count was far better than having even a very determined young lady.

"Besides, you can hardly pursue her if you are not here," Verne pointed out with a certain Gallic logic.

"I am not pursuing her. She's a lady." Verne smiled a very knowing smile. "Bah. Frenchies," Jack condemned him roundly. "Do we have a plan?"

"Do we have an accord?"

"For now."

"Then we wait for word from my network before we move. I am afraid we will have to wait for the Count or one of his men to make a move so we can confront them."

Jack pulled a grimy pack of cards from his pocket. "Patience, Jules, is one of my long suits." So saying, he proceeded to lay out a game of solitaire.

Phileas lay in a twilight world of fever dreams and narcotic dullness. He was vaguely aware of a woman's voice from time to time urging him to drink, to eat, to respond to her words. All he wanted was for her to go away and let him be. Only that didn't work either. The dreams were there, horrible and haunting. Where was Rebecca? She'd make them go away. She did it the last time; she could do it now, couldn't she? But Rebecca wasn't there. The voice wasn't hers; it was someone else's.

"Phileas." Lilith looked down at the sweat-drenched form and wondered if it was truly worth it to see him through this fever. The wound was clean, as far as she could tell, and healing nicely, yet his temperature soared and his mind wandered. If this was an effect of his talent for seeing how things fit together, she was increasingly glad it was not one of her gifts. "Phileas. Open your eyes."

He looked up at her, unfocused. "Leave me alone."

"I can't. Phileas, you're burning with fever. I need you to come with me." She pulled his arm and got him to sit up. He didn't resist her as she helped him to his feet. "This way. Come on. You'll be all right."

He met her gaze at that, his own dull, and shook his head. "No. It won't ever be all right. This is always with me. Make it stop."

He sounded dead with fatigue. What must it be like to see not just what was there but what it meant? What kind of hell could it put a person through, especially with no control over when and where it happened. The laudanum - could it be causing problems for him? She resolved to give him no more doses unless the pain was intolerable.

She led him down the hallway to a smaller room. In front of a fireplace was a copper bathtub. The water in the tub was not hot as for a bath, but tepid. Quickly she stripped Phileas out of his sweat soaked clothes and urged him into the tub. He shied at the chill of the water against his overheated skin, then relaxed into it, eyes closed.

"He can't succeed," he said after a while, eyes still closed, body relaxed.

"Who?"

"Count Gregory."

"Why?"

"No trust. He destroys what he doesn't trust and he doesn't trust anyone."

"What about me?" she asked softly, not wanting the answer and not daring to continue without it.

Lazily, he looked her over from under half closed lids. He smiled. "You are a bundle of contradictions. I can't read you. No. I don't want to read you. You have to make your own decisions and you are who you want to be."

Ask an oracle a question; get an answer couched in a mystery surrounded by an enigma. She smiled. Maybe it was for the best that he either could not or would not answer her question. She laid a hand gently on his forehead. The heat was down.

"How do you feel?"

"As though I'd been stabbed in the chest and beaten soundly."

"Well, you got the stabbed part right. Hungry?"

"Yes," he answered after a few moments of considering the question. "I don't suppose we could go out to eat," he added slyly.

"No. But I might be able to – what's the word?—have it catered in?" What the hell was she doing? This was crazy. It was insane. And Count Gregory wasn't? Looking down into Phileas' green eyes she knew she was in trouble. For the first time in her life, she was pulled in two directions. The Count paid her handsomely as long as she did not displease him. Phileas Fogg - she stopped that line of thought cold. There was nothing Phileas Fogg could offer her that the Count did not. Nothing. "Let's get you out of the tub and back to bed."

"Could I trouble you for clean sheets?"

Her mouth dropped open and then she laughed. "I will see what I can do," she answered as she wrapped a robe around him. She would also have to find him new clothing. What he had worn was sadly in need of cleaning between blood and sweat.

She saw him back to bed before going in search of food. She stopped in to report to her superior that the fever was broken and Phileas was lucid again, but weak and in need of another day of rest and food before the Count could rely on his intuitions about people. "After all, if he can't answer a simple question about me, what good would his answers be?" she ended lightly. Luckily, the man she addressed believed women good for only a few things and agreed with her that if the man could not divine that about her nature, he was not yet useful.

Passpartout, out gathering fresh vegetables and fruits for his master's table, was more concentrating on a puzzle on the Aurora than he was paying attention to the wares around him when he saw a horse and rider that struck him as odd. The vendor called his wandering attention back to the goods at hand for which they struck a bargain before he looked around curiously for the rider. There was something about the horse – of course! It was one of the horses described by the groom at the Fogg home.

Throwing caution to the winds, but not his basket of goods, Passpartout sped after the horse and rider, praying he would not lose them. Luck was with him. Bordering the market were several restaurants taking advantage of the fresh produce. None of them were of a caliber to attract his master's tastes, but they were well enough of their kind. The horse stood patiently outside the kitchen entrance of one of these.

Inside, the rider was bargaining with the cook for several items. Passpartout overheard the word "invalid" and the need for suitable foods to build strength. So, the rider sought foods for strengthening someone after an illness. The rider was on the horse of Mr. Fogg who was missing. Would it be wrong to put two and two together and possibly come up with the correct addition sum of four?

He was nearly bowled over by the rider as she strode out of the kitchen with two sacks of goods. He apologized for his presence as he dodged out of her way. That she was female was unmistakable. The leather trousers she wore left little enough to the imagination coupled as they were with a short, laced leather vest. Dark hair was braided straight down her back to her waist. She glared at him.

"What're you lookin' at?"

"Nothing, Missy," he answered; bobbing his head to indicated his subservience. "Missy has a good horse. My master is looking for good horses. Perhaps you could tell me where you purchased such a horse that I may be telling my master where to look for good stock?"

She laughed. "Tell him to look in the country. It's where the English breed horses, little froggie." With that she threw herself into the saddle and was off at a swift walk.

Passpartout considered following her, but thought it best to let his master know what he had seen.

"Passpartout, you are incredible! Only you could go looking for vegetables and find a woman …." Verne told him with a laugh. "And what a woman." He looked to Jack. "The stranger who rode out with young Fogg?"

Jack shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows, mate? Not me. She ain't takin' fresh baked goods and cooked meat far if she wants it hot when it arrives. Looks like leg work is in order." He grabbed his hat and settled it on his head before leaving. "I'll be in touch."

Claude Fiske, once Captain Barbosa of the Black Pearl, most feared immortal pirate of the Caribbean nearly two centuries earlier, looked around his quarters with dissatisfaction. The Count was a difficult employer at best, but there was little room for piracy the way Fiske had once practiced it. Ships were faster, crews more intelligent and piracy was no longer a hit and run sort of game played with far distant governments. He stopped his pacing long enough to run a hand over the silk draped chest occupying a corner of his room. A wicked smile cut across his swarthy face. As long as this one secret was kept, he was safe.

The smile was replaced with a frown as he fingered the ornate skull medallion that hung from the chain around his neck. There were two other coins missing. One was kept stitched to the vest that his monkey Jack wore. Fiske thought he knew who had the third coin and grumbled about it. Some day, he and that other immortal would meet, and this time there would be no mistake about survival, none at all. The monkey leaped from its perch to land on Fiske's shoulder, the man absently stroking the fur as he paced his room.

A few moments later, Fiske stalked out of the room, Jack riding on his shoulder and wondering if there would be food at the end of their trip. Jack was hungry. He was always hungry, no matter how much he ate. The animal's eyes glittered eerily. Some days it didn't matter. Today, the monkey wanted to be full.

As Fiske strode down the corridor toward the kitchen, he felt a tug. It wasn't a physical tug. No one except Jack would touch Fiske without his leave. No, this was the tug the gold exerted on the cursed. He started to brush the tug aside, then realized it wasn't the chest, it was lighter than the always-buzzing pull of the chest. This was the light brush of another piece of the treasure.

"Jack," he snarled silently. The monkey on his shoulder chattered excitedly. The animal could sense his master's moods. Fiske closed his eyes and tried to focus on that butterfly touch. Jack Sparrow, that confounded lucky bastard, was somewhere nearby. As he tried to trace the touch, he realized that it had been there for a while. He opened his eyes, unable to reach out and locate Sparrow immediately. "Well, now, Jack," he said, stroking the monkey, "It looks like we'll be havin' company soon. Perhaps this time, we'll be able to make an end o' yer namesake, boy. There's no Miss Swan and no blasted whelp named Turner to help him."

He pulled the monkey into his arms. "We'll have to give up bein' immortal for a while. But the price is worth the admission if it means an end to Jack Sparrow." Fiske's eyes glittered evilly. "Captain Jack Sparrow," he repeated with emphasis on the captain. "Ay, we'll see the last o' that boy, now." Memories of a triumph snatched from him made his face dark and frightening as he walked on down the hallway.

The man under consideration stopped in his tracks, something cold trickling down his back and setting every internal alarm he had jangling. He took an unobtrusive look around. No one looked familiar. The jangling settled out leaving him curious as to what had just happened. He suspected he was close to someone who held a coin, someone else who was cursed with the immortality of that chest of Aztec gold. There were few he could think of still alive who would wish him ill, fewer still aware of the power that lay within the chest. Only one name came to mind as he considered the combination of the two forces.

"Barbosa," he breathed in disbelief. Yet he could think of none other who would harbor such hatred for Jack Sparrow. Perhaps the pirate had not crawled away to die; perhaps he had done something else. It was not a comfortable thought.

"'ey! Mister!" A very grimy urchin tugged at Jack's coat. "I got sum'in' fer yuh." Disengaging his coat from the dirty hand Jack asked what the boy might have for him. "Guls," came the answer, whispered, with a quick look around to make certain they were not observed. "Fresh'uns. Ain't bin broked in yit. Ripe orf th'boat they be. Cheep."

There was something very wrong about this come on. Which inspired Jack to go investigate. If they were fresh and willing lasses, well, so much the better. If not …. Jack's grin was not one of the reassuring sort he turned on his friends.

He looked the produced girls over. They all stood in need of baths, but that was not what distressed Jack's sensibilities. He came from a time when bathing was frequently an accident of falling overboard and not something to be courted on land. What he sensed was fear, overwhelming fear. Not one girl was of the kind of background that led to willingly embracing the life of a whore. Several seemed not to speak English at all, these being of Asian extraction. Under cover of looking one of them over, he softly asked her name and if she was willing.

Dread kept her from looking up at the man who spoke her own language, if oddly accented. She gave him her name and nod that spoke volumes. He pushed her back into the line and looked over it again, apparently bored with what he saw.

"Fresh?" he drawled. "More like rolled in dirt and planted. Not a likely one in the bunch." His cheeky grin apparently satisfied the couple of men watching the girls. They were not so happy when he pulled his pistol and shot one between the eyes. "There are five more," Jack informed him, his aim never wavering.

"'ere. Those is ours, rightfully got."

"Stolen?"

"Ain't nobut lookin' fer 'em. Orphings, they is. Earns they keep they does, or out they goes."

"These don't even speak English." He pointed to the four Asian girls. "They can't even ask what a man wants. Who d'you think yer foolin'?"

For an answer, the big man tried to rush Jack. Two shots took him down, drowning in his own blood and complaining that he was dying for a bit of ass that was no better than it should be. Jack waited for his final breath to pass before looking around at the girls. What was he thinking? A dozen sets of frightened eyes looked at the body and then to him. What was he going to do now?

"All right. Any of you already lost what that lot wanted to sell me?" Two of them burst into tears. "It's all right, darlin's," he told them, keeping his pistol ready, but putting an arm around them as well. "It's all right. Ol' Jack'll think of sumthin'." Old Jack was going to need some help. He turned his attention to the girl whose name he'd learned and fired off a couple of questions.

She eyed him speculatively for a moment, then nodded and whispered to her companions. The four slipped away, returning several minutes later with coats and cloaks. "This one did not find dresses as the English wear, Captain Sparrow," the leader told him softly. One eyebrow raised in inquiry and received an impish smile in answer. "You are not unknown to my people in Shanghai, Captain."

Oh, Lord. "Let's get out of here." Slowly, he shepherded his flock out of the building and into a form of freedom. What the master of the aurora would say when Jack arrived with a dozen girls stolen from their homes and then stolen from their new owners he did not want to contemplate.

As they were moving out of one alley into another, Jack felt that shiver of closeness again. Somewhere nearby was the gold, his gold, the cursed gold he had thought never to see again. He wanted that gold badly, yet he also wanted to get the young ladies off his hands. With a short internal struggle, he went with his better instincts, promising he would return and explore the area more thoroughly.

Shortly thereafter, he hailed two hackney coaches and loaded his spoils into them, giving both drivers the direction and promising a good tip could they arrive, cargo in tact, with no delays. Both drivers took in the pistol stuck in the waistband of Jack's pants and decided that a good tip was better than a possible shooting any day.

Passpartout's eyes goggled slightly at the sight meeting his eyes as he opened the door of the Aurora to Jack's imperious summons. "Captains Sparrow! You have been doing what? The Master is not being happy at this Captains Sparrow!"

Jack finished ushering the ladies in and turned to Passpartout, taking a deep breath to make explanations. He deflated slightly and settled for the truth. "Slavers. I rescued them. They need baths, food and someone to find out if there is anyone who actually will miss them. Those that can be returned to their homes should be returned."

"And those that cannots?"

"I'll think of something."

The rustle of a woman's gown entering the living area made him turn. Rebecca. What was Rebecca Fogg doing here? Her eyes traveled over his companions and her fine eyebrows rose as her gaze came to settle on him. She waited.

Jack's mouth opened and closed a couple of times as he discarded several explanations, none of which sounded more than hollow in his ears. "I didn't find him. I did rescue them." He pointed at the girls. "Right. I'll be back." With that, he left again.

Rebecca watched him disappear back out the door before turning her attention to the frightened ladies. One of the Asian ones lifted her chin and looked Rebecca directly in the eye. She gave the redhead a regal nod and waited. Curious, Rebecca nodded back.

"I'm Rebecca Fogg. This is Passpartout. You are aboard the Aurora. And you were rescued by Jack Sparrow."

"I am aware of the Captain's identity, Miss Fogg," the young woman answered her. "I am Fong Li Yung. My companions are Wang May Lee, Mao Ziao Yin and Bien Xhi Txien. I do not know the others names. We were only herded together this morning."

"Have all of you been taught English?"

"No. May, Ziao and Xhi have only Mandarin and Cantonese. My father believed we must speak .." she faltered and dropped her eyes for a moment.

"Must speak the conqueror's language to understand them?" Rebecca finished for her.

Li Yung's face suffused with color for a moment before she nodded and looked up again. If she was relieved that Rebecca did not look angry, it did not show in her face. "I have no wish to insult my rescuer."

"Quite all right. Passpartout, I think perhaps baths are in order, and clothing. Miss Fong.."

"Mrs."

"Mrs. Fong, if you will assure your companions that they are indeed safe here, it would be greatly appreciated." The young woman translated swiftly and received shy nods from the other ladies. "Passpartout will show you to a private room where you may clean up and rest if you desire. I will see what I can find out about these others. Passpartout will provide food as well."

Mrs. Fong bowed deeply, translated and helped Passpartout shepherd the ladies out of the living area, leaving Rebecca regarding 8 scantily clad young women, some of whom looked still terrified. "Please, sit. Passpartout will bring blankets in a few moments." She prayed the little man would be as efficient as ever, and prescient enough to know her wishes. "As I said, I am Rebecca Fogg. May I know who you are?"

Several of them introduced themselves shyly. All of them were a bit overawed by the tall, self-possessed young woman who seemed un-phased by the sudden arrival of a dozen unsuitably dressed women. Passpartout out did himself with blankets and tea. It took some doing, but Rebecca finally had all of their stories when the four Asian women rejoined them looking and feeling much better than they had for some time.

Jules Verne, less than pleased with his street contacts and hoping Jack's luck was better than his own, returned to the Aurora to find it swamped with petticoats. A collective shriek went up from the rescued ladies as they dove for cover, taking the lately procured dresses Passpartout provided with them. Verne's eyebrows took refuge in his hairline, or tried to do so. His valet/pilot broke into voluble and idiomatic French at the sight of his employer, giving him a swift and succinct, if somewhat chaotic explanation of why his ship was cluttered with unsuitable young ladies who were not, after all, completely unsuitable.

Rebecca, who understood all but the most idiomatic of Passpartout's explanation, met Verne's eyes and broke into laughter. She rapidly controlled the outburst, but could not refrain from smiling. "I am so sorry. I know, I shouldn't laugh. It is truly serious .. but .."

"Yes." Verne looked a bit long suffering as he surveyed the faces peeping out from behind various items of furniture. "Precisely." His own mouth twitched a little. "I shall … er … lie down for a while. My room?"

Passpartout assured him that his room was sacrosanct and unoccupied. The dapper man tipped his hat to the ladies and disappeared down the hallway and into his compartment. Once there, he fought succumbing to the laughter that bubbled up inside him. This was a deep and dangerous game they were playing, one in which the stakes might be much more than the life of Rebecca Fogg's callow brother …. Leave it to Jack Sparrow to do something outrageous and unexpected.

The Count was raging. Two of his men were dead. Two of his men, engaging in practices of which the Count did not necessarily disapprove, but of which he had not been informed, had lost their lives to one man. He bellowed, he stormed; he lashed out at his personnel, breaking and maiming several of them.

"Fiske!"

"Aye?"

The ravaged, half metallic face came far closer to Fiske's face than most people appreciated. The mad eyes glared at him. "I want a full report of everything that is going on. Is that clear?" The inquiry was silky instead of bellowed.

"Yes, sir. Quite clear." Mentally he cursed the two dead men. Slavery was nothing to him, but fools annoyed Fiske. "Will that be all?" His gaze did not drop from the Count's.

"Go. Get out of my sight!"

With a nod, Fiske did exactly that. It really was becoming time to move on.

"Bring me Fogg." The Count's order was aimed at no one in particular; so half a dozen men sprang to the task.

The door to Fogg's room slammed open a while later. Lilith glared at the man responsible. He gave her no time to vent her wrath on him. "The Count wants him now."

"All right." Timing, the timing was terrible. Some how she needed to get Phileas to do at least a part of what the Count wanted, enough to pass for now, enough to give her time to figure out something else. She turned to the figure resting lightly on the bed. "Phileas. The Count requires your presence."

Phileas stretched slowly, making a great production of "waking up" and being sleep fuddled. He sensed tension in Lilith. Looking at the lout in the doorway he saw death, a great deal of death. Behind that he saw the medallion again. Still, he had no idea what it meant, only that somehow his future and Lilith's turned on that leering skull. Moving slowly, as though in more pain than he actually felt, he moved off the bed and got dressed. His chest was still uncomfortable, but the twinges were nothing to his reactions to them.

"Dammit, hurry him up!"

"He's taken a knife in the chest and the wound's infected. If he can't answer the Count because he's caused more damage moving swiftly … well, I wouldn't want to have to answer to the Count for it, would you?"

He might have gnashed his teeth in response, but she wasn't watching.

Count Gregory was cooler when Phileas finally appeared. The tall, wiry young man leaned heavily on Lilith's support as he entered the room. He took in the crowd of people and the dark figure of his captor. He fought the desire to stand straight and spit in the monster's eye. That would gain him nothing. Instead, he continued to lean on the woman at his side until they came to a halt before the Count. Then, and only then, did he raise his head to face his nightmare.

"Count Gregory," he addressed the other with a nod of his head. He did not raise his voice, nor did he particularly show any fear, although there was fear eating away inside him. There was that leering smile again. He suppressed a shudder.

"Fogg. You know what I want?"

"You want to know about your people. You want to know who to kill and who to keep. You want to know who you can trust and who you can't." Then he did straighten. Staring at the Count he knew answers he did not want to know. There was no one the Count could completely trust. Those who followed him were broken, bent and venal. They could be bought by the highest bidder. Those who did not fit that category were as twisted as their master and would turn on him just as he would turn on them when the time was suitable.

"You cannot win," Phileas straightened. He was only slightly aware of Lilith's stiffening at his side. "You cannot win. You want to know whom you can trust, yet you are not worthy of trust. Your grasp will always fail." If he saw the Count move toward him or had any inkling of the backhanded strike that drove him to the floor, he showed no sign of it.

The men in the room shrank back. What kind of idiot told the Count to his face that his quest for dominion would not work? Was the boy so wishful of a painful death that he lied to the Master? Yet there was something in his serene face that told them he was neither mad nor wishful of death. Phileas was only calling the shots as he saw them. He turned his face to the Count again, not bothering to try to rise and face the monster looming over him.

"You want trust, yet you break it always. Not even Hell wants you."

Only Lilith's quick grab and drag kept Phileas from being crushed by the metallic clad fists that drove down on him. The floor cracked under the impact as the madman roared his anger. The odd calm that had settled over Phileas fled leaving only terror in its wake. He scrambled to his feet, grabbed for Lilith and ran.

For whatever reason, Count Gregory's people made no move to stop the fleeing pair. Possibly they were more interested in moving out of the angry despot's way. Possibly they were mulling over what Phileas had said. Whatever the reason, Phileas and Lilith made their way out of the hall where Count Gregory continued to flail in his enraged state and into one of the ant maze hallways with which the area was apparently honeycombed.

Phileas stopped, lost. Lilith disengaged her hand from his; massaging the knuckles he'd scrunched a bit in his urgency. He looked down at her and realized he'd just dragged her into his fight. Words of apology bubbled up to be stopped by a slender finger laid across his lips.

"Don't. There's no need. I was beginning to think I'd overstayed my welcome anyway." Ever the pragmatist, Lilith was already trying to find a way out of the situation for herself and Phileas. "First, we need weapons and out of this rabbit warren. Come on." She headed off down the hallway. After a fractional hesitation, Phileas followed her.

Lilith was not the only rat leaving the Count's ship. Claude Fiske, feeling the presence of another cursed immortal, was making his move as well. The feeling had receded earlier, but it was back. Somewhere outside the Count's little underground kingdom, there was an immortal cockroach scuttling around trying to find a way in. Fiske wanted to take no chances that somehow Sparrow might yet again find a way to put a halt to his career. He fingered the medallion under his shirt for the fiftieth time this since he had felt the tug.

He exhorted the drones to get a move on as they moved the heavy stone chest out of Fiske's room and down a hallway toward the stables. Jack fidgeted on his shoulder, demanding stroking or food to keep calm. Fiske fed him tidbits of sweets out of his pocket. He could smell the dank scent of the streets just above them. Sometimes he wished his sense of smell were as dead as the rest of him. For just a moment, he wondered if his choice was worth it. Would it be better to end the curse now? To kill Jack Sparrow and take a chance on real death himself to be free of the curse? How long had it been since he felt anything? How long since the silken skin of a woman thrilled him? How long since food tasted like aught but ash? Ten years had put the longing in him. Two hundred seemed to have dulled even his memories.

As far as he knew, there were only three coins missing from the chest. His, the monkey's and Jack's. To break the curse he'd need all three back in the chest with the appropriate blood sacrifice. Unfortunately, to break the curse with Jack present was an iffy proposition at best. Jack hated him. He smiled. With reason, Jack Sparrow hated him. Still, Jack won the last hand and took his ship leaving the supposed dead Barbosa on the island. That had been a really long walk to get back to civilization.

He bared his teeth in a snarl. To know that the crew of the Black Pearl under Sparrow had benefited from ten years of plunder on the Spanish Main, plunder they'd had no hand in; that made him angry. Over the years he hunted up each retired member of the crew. Well, most of them. A few died before he found them. Only one fought him off. That voodoo witch Sparrow called his second in command. Anna Marie. Nothing he did brought her to him.

He thought he'd avenge himself on her whelp. Unfortunately, her children knew as much as she did. After a century, he gave it up and concentrated on amassing another fortune. But piracy was far harder by then and there was no ship the equal of the Black Pearl. Unfortunately, he had no idea what Sparrow had done with ship. He also suspected that the Black Pearl was faster with a cursed crew aboard than with a mortal one.

He had the drones load the chest into a heavy dray wagon. Then he dismissed them while he and the stable hand harnessed a quartet of Clydesdale heavy draft horses to the wagon. He was testing the harness when he became aware of a presence. He turned and saw exactly whom he expected to see.

"Jack."

"Barbosa."

"Fiske. Claude Fiske. Captain Barbosa is dead. You shot him, remember?"

"Fiske. Barbosa. All one and the same, ain't it. You 'n me. The curse. The hate. Can't seem to get away from it. You've got my gold."

"Your gold!? Who stole it in the first place?"

"Cortez."

"Bah! Who took it from the chest? Who spent it and who brought it all back? All but one pesky piece that it took Bootstrap's whelp to return? I did. It's mine and it'll stay mine."

Jack shook his head, almost ruefully. "No. Can't let you do that. If this Count ye've allied with found out what ye had, what ye hadn't told him about, then there would be a problem. Ah .." Jack trained a six shot pistol on Fiske. "Don't do anything stupid."

"Aye. That's ye all over, Jack. Don't do anything stupid. Wait for the opportune moment. This is the opportune moment!" He leaped into the driver's seat, pulling up the great black lashed whip in one hand and the reins in the other before bringing the lash down on the back of the surprised horses. Watching a normal horse rear in the traces of a wagon is bad enough, watching almost 2000 pounds of massive hoofed Clydesdale draft horse do so is frightening. Both lead horses reared and then threw themselves into the harness. The following horses moved out behind their leaders and the dray wagon began to move inexorably toward the still closed stable doors.

Jack fired three times, hitting Fiske square in the chest to no avail. The man laughed off the hits and whipped his horses again. Just as it looked as though the doors would shatter under the assault of the horses and wagon, someone outside threw them open. Jules Verne looked in just long enough to assess his danger and threw himself aside as the heavy wagon rolled out of the stable.

Regaining his feet, Verne launched at the driver, carrying Fiske to the ground on the far side of the wagon. Jack, seeing Fiske occupied fighting off the Frenchman, ran after the still moving wagon. The last thing any of them needed was for the wagon to crash and the chest to be dumped into the square outside scattering its contents for any vagabond to pick up.

Phileas and Lilith burst out of another hallway into the stable looking for horses. The energy that had spurred the young man onward was faltering. His chest burned, his lungs labored. At the sight of Fiske and Jack he stopped cold, his visions taking complete control for a moment. Over all was the pirate flag and that golden medallion. He focused on the chest.

"Lilith!"

She turned from the horse she was saddling. "What?"

"Help him."

She looked around confused. Verne was getting the worst of the fight with Fiske. She didn't think Fiske warranted the request. Then she caught site of Jack fighting to control the horses and the wagon. Her mouth dropped open as she looked back at Phileas. "How?"

He looked at her then and shook his head. "I don't know. Just – The cargo. There's something about the cargo. It can't get away from him. Don't let it spill." With that he moved toward where Fiske was drawing back a punishing right hand to hit the man he was sitting astride.

"I don't think so," came the comment in a well-educated voice as Phileas grabbed Fiske's arm and hauled him bodily off the smaller man. He reeled back as the trajectory changed and the fist clipped him solidly in the jaw. Lights flickered before his eyes as he went down.

Verne took the distraction as time to get back to his feet and pull his gun. Fiske's laughter bothered him. So did the lack of effect as he put three quick shots into the man's torso. The better part of valor seemed to be retreat at this point. Unfortunately, Fiske stood between him and the young man he thought was probably Rebecca Fogg's brother.

"Phileas?"

The young man shook his head and looked around. That answered his question. It also gave Fiske a new target. He reached Phileas and hauled the much more lightly built young man to his feet. A wicked looking knife gleamed in his free hand. "Now, ye'll be moving out of me way or the whelp will be feeling the prick of me blade here."

Verne quickly evaluated the situation and gave way to the man. There was a possibility he could work his way around to help Phileas. There was also a possibility the man would kill young Fogg even if he got free. He took a quick look towards the wagon. Jack and the woman had the team under control and were bringing it back to the stable. Perhaps he could distract the man with the wagon?

"Killing him won't get your gold back," he hazarded.

Fiske flicked a glance toward the wagon. He ground his teeth, loosening his grip on Phileas fractionally. A sharp elbow buried itself in his ribcage. He folded around it slightly, loosening his grip even more and allowing his hostage to break free.

Jack handed the reins to his leather-clad companion and leaped into the back of the wagon. The last time he'd shoved the lid off the stone casket, he'd had a couple of pry bars with him to help. Now he had only his own desperate strength. The specter of an army of undead warriors under Fiske and Gregory's command moved him as little else had ever done. Freedom was Jack's god and his god was in danger.

"You!" Lilith looked around as she looped the reins around the whip holder and raised an elegant eyebrow in inquiry. "Help me." He saw the indecision in her face. Whipping out his pistol again, he fired point blank at the advancing Fiske. The man absorbed the blow and continued his steady walk forward. "Help me? Please?"

She was at his side instantly, shoving with all her strength. The slab of stone moved fractionally, then practically slid out from under them of it's own will. Jack grabbed the medallion from around his neck, took a breath and slashed his palm, wrapping his hand around the medallion before letting it drop into the chest.

Feeling the magic ripple outward, Fiske laughed. "Jack, Jack. Always the fool, Jack," he called as he started to climb aboard the wagon.

Jack knew there was but one feeble chance to stop Fiske. He saw Verne was helping Phileas out of the stable. Black uniformed men were coming into the stable, roused by the sound of the fight. Fiske had reinforcements. As Verne and Phileas took in the arrival and went to head off the men by closing the stable doors, Jack threw himself at Fiske, taking him backwards off the wagon onto the cobblestones below. He heard the weighty crack of a skull against stone but knew it would do no more than stun his opponent until the curse was broken. He quickly searched as many pockets as he could reach before Fiske regained his senses and punched his assailant in the belly.

The fight began in earnest now, Jack both defending himself and trying to find his enemy's coin. A small figure flashed past him toward the wagon. A glimmer of gold on the animal caught his attention just as Fiske landed a hard one on his jaw. Jack reeled and went down.

From Phileas point of view, time slowed and stopped as the monkey leaped at Lilith, claws and jaws ready to inflict as much damage as a small animal could. He pulled away from Verne, taking the pistol Lilith shoved at him out of his pocket. He coolly took aim at the small moving target, knowing that this was too important to let other things distract him. Verne stared at the haggard young man in astonishment as the pistol fired.

Jack, the monkey, distracted by the sound of gunfire, turned into the bullet. It caught the small ribcage centered, slamming the monkey back into the chest, blood and flesh spattering the gold medallion as it joined its brothers in the chest. The monkey lay there stunned. He looked up into the angry face of the woman Fiske didn't like. Panic welled up in the little form as he saw his death in her face.

Phileas reeled back against the wall, his arm dropping and exhaustion claiming him. Seeing his state, Verne looked back at the stable doors and realized that there was no way they could block those doors. Count Gregory's men were already opening them again.

A shadow darkened the square. Looking up, only one of the men in the fight recognized the airship above them. With a laugh, the stockier Frenchman went to Phileas and pulled him away from the wall, moving him away from the entrance to the Count's hideout. "Passpartout!" he yelled against the noise around them and pointed up. The name meant nothing to the younger man, but he nodded and went with this enthusiastic rescuer.

Above the fight, Passpartout took in the situation, lowered the Aurora so that she had a clear shot at the stable and fired the two small cannon mounted on either side of the prow. He grinned at the immediate ruin he made. The Count's men became far more interested in not getting blown to hell than they were in finding out what the ruckus outside was and who the two men running away were.

Fiske and Jack continued their battle, rolling around the stones, neither wanting to release the other. Finally, Fiske broke free of Jack's hold and both regained their feet and their weapons. Standing no more than three feet from each other, they stood taut and silent. Jack's eyes were dark and deadly. Fiske was mocking. "What now, Jack, boy? Ye've done your part. The monkey's done his. But mine .. " he grabbed for the medallion hung around his neck and found it gone. "No! Not again! Damn ye!" He changed his target for the only one he knew he could hit and the only one he was certain could not have his medallion.

"Lilith!" the word was ripped from Phileas as she stood and turned to look at the sudden silence.

The frozen tableau was very, very tense.

"Is this what you're looking for?"

Every eye suddenly focused on the newcomer. Rebecca Fogg, primly proper, stood holding the chain with Fiske's medallion at the end. Blood dripped from the lowest point. As Fiske tried to change his target again, she lightly tossed the coin into the wagon. It glittered red and gold as it started its descent into the chest. Three guns barked as one.

The medallion fell into the chest. Fiske's mouth made an astonished "O" as Verne's shot took him in the back of the head and Jack's took him square between the eyes this time. Only Phileas knew where Fiske's shot went. As darkness took him down, he saw Lilith fall across the chest and knew he had lost.

Epilogue

Rebecca looked into the library at her Aunt's home hoping to find her brother. Luck was with her. Phileas sat clad in a resplendent Chinese silk dressing gown over his normal day clothing, a book ignored in his lap, looking out a nearby window at nothing. Rebecca looked to make certain it was nothing and shook her head. If he heard her footsteps coming across the hardwood floor, he showed no signs of it.

"Phil," she addressed him as she sank down beside the sofa.

He looked around and then down at her. There was a deep melancholy in his face, but he tried a smile when he saw her. "Becca."

"The doctor says you have survived. I'm beginning to wonder if perhaps I should consult another physician."

"I'm fine."

"You're sitting in the library, stretched out on a sofa, in your dressing gown .. not that it isn't a very fine dressing gown … not reading a book."

He shrugged his shoulders slightly. Nothing meant very much to him just now. He knew it was worrying his sister, but he didn't know exactly how he felt about much of anything.

"She may not be dead, you know."

"What?"

"Your friend? The one Fiske shot. She may not be dead."

"Becca .."

"I know. It looked very bad. But she fell into the chest, you know. And when we went to claim the body, I mean, we thought you'd wish us to do the right thing for her, she wasn't there. No one recalled seeing her. It seemed unlikely that someone merely missed her given the costume she wore."

He stared at her for a long, silent moment. "I don't suppose anyone has tried counting the number of coins in the chest."

Rebecca grinned at him. "No. Jack says he's not ready to pick up the immortal life when there's no guarantee he wouldn't be able to drop it again when he liked."

There was something about the way she spoke the man's name that caught Phileas' attention. "Rebecca .." When she looked up and her color heightened he knew that he was on to something. "He's not the marrying kind, you know."

She sighed and nodded. "Neither, it seems, am I. Phileas, would you think me fast if I continue to work with Mr. Verne? I was thinking I could adapt a version of .. Phileas, what is her name?"

"Lilith."

Her eyebrows rose. "My. Someone didn't like her much."

"I like it."

"Good! I'm glad to hear it."

"You're going to adapt a version of – her –"

"Yes. I can quite see that it is far more suitable to the sorts of things I want to do."

"He's French."

"He's … Well, yes, he is. But he's not a nationalist. He's more … interested in keeping the world on balance than he is in any particular country. As England is really at the top in power at the moment, he has worked directly for Her Majesty. Thus, I would be working …"

"For Her Majesty." He caught her hand. "Are you sure?"

"Very."

"Jack?"

She colored again. "Jack is … his own man, Phil. I did tell him that if he didn't drop in from time to time I might take it into my head to find him," she ended with a grin. "He said he'd think about it."

"So, what is he doing?"

"When we finished going through Count Gregory's place, he and Passpartout found some plans for another airship. A different one. We're not sure whether it's been built for Gregory, but we're looking into building one for Jack. He thinks freedom of the air is probably better than the sea for the future. Verne is helping him take the chest back to its hiding place and they're figuring out what to do with all the young ladies Jack rescued."

Phileas blinked at that. "Young ladies?"

"A dozen. Apparently slavery of some kind is still alive and well even in Britain. I find I disapprove."

A chuckle broke from her brother and turned into a laugh. "Good for you, Becca, good for you." With that the book fell to the floor and he gathered his sister into a firm hug. "And thank you," he whispered into her hair. Perhaps life wasn't quite as bad as he had thought.

End


End file.
